


The Distance Between Us

by Bennet87



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25898845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bennet87/pseuds/Bennet87
Summary: It's been six years since the close bond they shared was severed after one stupid mistake. After a long time away, Nicole returns to Purgatory as a Sheriff's deputy, but cannot let go of the painful memories that haunt every nook and cranny of the sleepy town.The last thing she expects is for Waverly Earp - her ex-best friend and the woman she has been in love with for the better part of 10 years - to walk back into her life. She wants nothing more than to heal the rift between them, but will the many and varied wounds inflicted by past regrets heal so easily?
Relationships: Waverly Earp & Nicole Haught, Waverly Earp/Nicole Haught, Wynonna Earp & Nicole Haught
Comments: 88
Kudos: 336





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So here I am with a different fic that I've had rattling around in my head for a little while and that demanded to be started (even though I haven't finished my other one - oops!). It was nice to take a break from my other one for a bit and try something different.
> 
> And so that you are forewarned: it IS very different, in terms of style and structure and also plot (it's very angsty, which I never usually write). So, if you've read some of my other one 'To Find You', don't expect anything like that haha.

**Purgatory, Present Day  
**

She’s sitting on her usual bar stool when it happens. 

_Shorty’s_ is awash with the usual low murmurs, the loud clack of pool balls smacking against one another, the raucous laughter of the inebriated locals, the dulcet tones of the gorgeous barmaid as she unabashedly flirts with the punters. She has learned to drown them out over the past couple of months since her return, to focus only on the bottom of her glass and her own repetitive thoughts – thoughts of what this place _used_ to be like, before –

But no, she will not allow herself to stray down _that_ path again. It has only led to frustration and anger, the cracks in her oft-broken heart widening every time she allows herself to envisage what _might_ have been, the still-raw wounds ripping open with every accidental reminiscence over the past.

So, she downs the remainder of her drink and signals wearily to the dark-haired barmaid to pour her another. The woman fixes her with a would-be unnerving stare, one reproachful eyebrow raised, but she’s too numb to feel its intended devastating effects.

‘That’ll be the fourth one this hour, Red,’ the barmaid chides her. ‘Don’t you think you should stop for the evening?’

‘If you’re going to try to mother me, Rosita,’ she says, sighing, ‘the least you could do is make me breakfast in the morning.’ 

It isn’t meant to sound flirtatious, to sound like an innuendo, but it is clearly received as such; Rosita leans across the counter towards her, whiskey bottle in hand, her lips curling into a smirk as she pours. 

‘Is that an invitation?’ the woman almost purrs. 

And despite her misery and her complete disinterest, her intoxication takes over and she smiles back. ‘Why, do you want it to be?’ 

There's something in the other woman’s eyes, a curious spark that ignites, that gives her the answer without the need for words; the barmaid’s free hand snakes over her own, fingertips brushing her wrist, squeezing her forearm. In that moment, she feels herself recoil, her throat constricting at the prospect that her offer might be taken seriously. It’s not what she wants – not really – but she can’t bring herself to sit up straight, to break the lingering eye contact.

She doesn’t even hear the bar doors open as she grips her glass a little more tightly with her bruised hand. 

‘Nicole?’

The familiar voice – one she has _tried_ and failed to forget over the years – finally drags her attention away from the uncomfortable exchange; she turns...and almost wishes she hadn’t as her eyes fall upon crimped honey-brown hair and tanned skin and painful memories that she has tried to obliterate for the past God knows how many years.

And, as appears to be happening on a much more regular basis nowadays, words fail her; she stares dumbly at the ghost of her past manifested before her, the young woman who has taken up residence in far too many dreams and fantasies than she would care to admit.

‘Nicole, it _is_ you, right?’ She moves closer, but not as close as she used to. ‘What are you doing here?’

Still, she says nothing. Whether it is the alcohol coursing through a familiar bloodstream, the questioning hazel eyes that are searching hers, or the _un_ familiar hand still covering hers that renders her mute, she cannot tell. She watches as the young woman’s gaze lands upon said hand on the bar, watches as her brow furrows for the briefest of seconds, before she looks back up.

‘I guess I’m interrupting,’ her fantasy says coolly, and all traces of confusion and surprise have disappeared, replaced with a hardened expression that she knows all too well by now. ‘I'll try again when you’re not otherwise engaged.’

With that, the woman turns on her heel and stalks out of the bar without another word. The renewed pressure of warm fingers wrapping around her wrist finally clears the whiskey-fog that has enveloped her brain and she stumbles off her stool, a singular purpose propelling her legs towards the entrance and out into the crisp night air.

‘Waverly...’ she almost chokes at the figure fumbling with her car keys as she tries to open the door to her red Jeep.

The woman halts her trembling efforts and she can _hear_ the laboured breath she inhales before she turns to look over her shoulder.

‘I don’t think we should do this now, Nicole,’ she says. ‘You’re not in a fit state to have the conversation we _both_ know is coming.’ 

‘Waverly,’ she repeats, almost like a mantra, as though her mind refuses to form anything more coherent than the name she hasn’t dared to speak aloud for almost a year now; she’d almost forgotten what it sounded like, what it felt like to utter those three precious syllables. She forces herself to swallow and to try to sound like a sensible, thinking human being. ‘What...what are you doing here? Back? Here?’

It’s rough and it’s raspy and it’s garbled, but it’s more than she’s managed so far in the face of such a shock. She thinks it’s to be expected, all things considered.

What she _isn’t_ expecting is the piercing stare with which the other woman fixes her, the warmth she remembers from years past all but gone.

‘I could ask you the same thing.’ Waverly grips the car keys in her hand, the various keyrings clinking together and sounding far too loud in the tense silence that has billowed between them; she notices that Waverly still has the small, silver guardian angel keyring she gifted her all those years ago, back before – ‘I didn’t even know you had returned to Purgatory.’

The hurt that slips in between Waverly’s words makes her glance down at her own feet; she rubs the back of her neck with one hand, an old habit and one that her best friend _used_ to recognise as a sign of her shame and discomfort. Looking up at the other woman, seeing the twitch of her mouth and the faint lines creasing her usually-smooth brow, she thinks that maybe she still does.

Yet, instead of just _explaining_ herself, and instead of trying to mend the rift that has slowly been widening between them over the years – that is now a chasm that appears almost insurmountable – she does the worst thing imaginable: she reverts to that immature, awkward teenager that didn’t know how to handle complicated feelings and confrontation.

‘Well, you didn’t tell _me_ , either.’ 

She realises then that she still doesn’t know how to deal with those things. 

Apparently, so does Waverly. She scoffs and shakes her head in a way that is reminiscent of every single other time they have seen each other since the incident that altered things between them forever.

‘It’s good to know some things don’t change,’ Waverly sighs, and the resignation that inhabits that single breath is almost unbearable. 

Waverly turns again and this time manages to insert the key into the door, unlocking it with a haste that speaks of a burning desire to leave the place as soon as humanly possible.

‘No, wait,’ she says, the desperation in her voice manifesting physically in the way she reaches out a hand to grasp the other woman’s arm.

Waverly half-spins, wrenching away from her loose grip. ‘No, Nicole. It isn’t worth it. We should have realised that after all these years. We just...we need to accept it.’

The way Waverly almost throws herself into the driver’s seat and the slam of the door and the squeal of the tires as the Jeep peels away down the street feels far too familiar – as do the sting of the hot tears in her own eyes and the painful tightening in her chest.

She is left there, standing alone in the dimly-lit street as her whiskey-addled brain dredges up a memory she was hoping to have drowned in the copious volumes of alcohol with which she has flooded her system over the past two months... 

*** 

**Purgatory, six years ago (Waverly: 17, Nicole: 18)**

It’s her last chance to make things right.

She’s standing on the front porch of the homestead, hand held aloft and clenched into a fist as she prepares to knock. She’s _been_ standing there for the better part of five minutes, trying – and failing – to muster the courage to do just that. 

But it’s her last chance. If she doesn’t do it now, she’ll lose the opportunity – perhaps forever.

So, she raps her knuckles against the splintering wood of the rickety door and waits.

And waits.

And waits... 

Until, eventually, she hears the unmistakable sound of voices filtering through the thin walls, raised in apparent argument. The mutters and shouts of one particular voice draws nearer and nearer until it is right behind the door; within seconds its owner is peering at her through the secondary screen. 

‘Oh, it’s you.’ Although it’s not the Earp sister she was hoping would greet her, she attempts a wonky smile that is perhaps more of a grimace, all things considered. ‘Waverly’s busy,’ Wynonna adds before she can even verbalise her obvious question.

‘Oh.’ 

And, just like that, her carefully-practised speech – the one she wrote down and edited and edited and _edited_ into the early hours of the morning until it was _just so_ – dissolves like tissue paper in the watery cavern of her own disappointment. She has no idea what to say next, so she stares numbly at the weary and guarded face of the girl with whom she had cultivated a rather odd yet mutually beneficial friendship over the years. The way Wynonna returns the look with a blank one of her own reminds her of just how much she has lost because of one stupid, thoughtless mistake.

But, then, that’s not _entirely_ true. The mistakes were many and varied and made throughout every one of the four years she has known the Earps; each one chipped away at the very foundation of her relationship with both of them, leaving her with the crumbled ruins of what had once been the strongest support network she had ever known.

Of course, she has nobody to blame but herself. 

‘Did you want anything else?’ Wynonna sighs. ‘I can give her a message, I suppose.’ She shakes her head, knowing there is no time, knowing it is pointless. She has to accept that now. ‘Okay, well...good luck with college, I guess.’ 

The half-hearted attempt at a goodbye from the girl with whom she used to share so many secrets feels like a punch to the gut; it smarts almost as much as knowing she won’t get to speak to Waverly one last time before she leaves – perhaps forever.

‘Yeah. Thanks.’

And, with that, she turns and staggers back down the few steps towards her banged-up wreck of a car – the one Waverly helped her choose when she finally passed her test; the one she helped her clean and fix (well, _watched_ her fix) over an entire summer two years ago. Back when things were good and childhood seemed like it would stretch on forever and all they really had to worry about was homework and tests and hating their parents for controlling their tiny, tiny world. 

Before she makes it all the way to the driver’s side, the sound of tyres crunching over dry dirt pulls her thoughts away from the past and up to the entrance to the homestead. Her heart thumps once in her chest as she sees Waverly squinting at her through the grimy windscreen. The Jeep falters and lurches to a stop nearby and she waits as her best friend – _Ex-best friend_ , she corrects herself – slides out of the door to stand in front of her.

Neither one says anything for a long moment. They simply look at one another.

She scrambles in her mind to mesh the crumpled speech she had prepared, but it’s no use: she can’t piece the separate parts back together into a coherent whole. Not with Waverly in front of her, arms folded across her chest, lips pursed into a thin line, one eyebrow raised in expectation of what she has come to say.

She knows that nothing will be enough.

‘Um, hi,’ she manages, the words disappearing down her throat as she swallows. 

‘Hi,’ Waverly returns flatly. ‘I didn’t think I would see you before you left.’ 

For some reason, she smiles at that; it’s the wrong thing to do, she realises immediately. Waverly’s fingers dig into her forearms as she wraps her arms around herself even more tightly. 

‘I, um, had something prepared,’ she tries again, taking a tentative step forward. ‘I wrote it all down but I forgot it when I left and now I don’t...I can’t think of...what to say.’ 

This time, both of Waverly’s eyebrows quirk upwards, and not in the adorable _‘I’m so excited to learn this brand new fact’_ way that she loves so very much. Instead, it’s a visual depiction of her impatience and her frustration and, very clearly, her longing for this conversation to end before it has truly begun. 

‘I came to apologise. For...being a dick.’

That was better. More to the point, she feels.

Apparently, Waverly doesn’t feel the same. 

‘Okay.’ 

That one word leaves very little for her to latch onto, so she flounders, her hand going instinctively to the back of her neck and rubbing hard. Waverly watches but says nothing. 

‘So, um...yeah. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said or done... _that_.’ 

She knows that, if she can’t even speak about it, it was bad. _Really_ bad. The recognition of this makes her scratch at her neck with bitten, broken nails. 

‘No, you shouldn’t have. You had _no_ right.’

There it is: the simmering fury that she has feared all along. If there’s one thing she’s learned over the four years of knowing Waverly Earp, it’s not to get on the wrong side of her anger. 

Boy, did she fail _that_ test, and rather spectacularly. 

‘I know. I don’t...I’m not sure why I did it.’ 

‘No?’

She finally looks Waverly in the eye. The one-word question appears to hold an accusation far beyond what is apparent on the surface, a challenge to which she should rise. But she doesn’t know how. She doesn’t know what Waverly expects of her, not really. 

She never has. 

‘I guess I just...lost my temper. I don’t like seeing my friends being treated like that.’ 

Waverly scoffs – a sound she has heard all too often over the past month, one that hurts worse than a physical slap would – and lets her arms drop to her side.

‘I don’t know why we bother,’ she mutters.

She's not sure whether she’s meant to hear that or not, it’s said so softly. But before she can respond, Waverly is shaking her head and fiddling with her car keys, the many keyrings jangling as they clink against one another. There's the guardian angel she had given her the week before the incident, as a reminder that she would always watch over her, protect her.

It seems far too ironic now.

Waverly exhales and glances at her watch. ‘Look, I’m late to meet someone, so – ’ 

‘Don’t tell me it’s _Hardy_ ,’ she spits before she has even thought about what she’s saying. 

Waverly narrows her eyes at her – dangerously, one might say – and she _almost_ takes a step back. It's the same expression she had worn that night, and they both know how well that had ended... 

‘Not that it’s _any_ of your business, but no, it’s not.’ If Waverly notices the barely-suppressed sigh of relief, she doesn’t show any sign. ‘But I _am_ late, so, if you’ve got anything else you want to say...?’ 

Later, she will look back on this moment and understand that it was an opening, an invitation to finally admit everything. Later, she will realise that this was the moment she truly fucked everything up. 

But, at eighteen years of age, she realises nothing of the sort. All she knows is fear and a sick sort of anxiety that pools in her stomach and snakes its bitter way up her throat and makes it difficult for her to say much of anything anymore. 

‘N-no. Just...just that I’m sorry. Again.’

This time, Waverly nods, and it’s a sad, almost defeated motion that will sear itself into every crevice of her memory so that it can slowly burn her from the inside out with regret for the next six years. 

‘Then I guess this is goodbye,’ Waverly says, and it’s the quietest she’s ever spoken. ‘Good luck at college. I hope...I hope you find what you need there.’ 

Not for the first – nor the last – time in her life, she watches Waverly slide into the driver’s seat, start up the ignition, and peel away without so much as a backwards glance. 

The act turns the small distance between them into a roaring abyss, one she cannot see any way of traversing. 

So, swallowing the lump in her dry throat and blinking back the burning tears that have sprung to her tired eyes, she trudges over to her own car and leaves the homestead for the final time.

*** 

**Purgatory, Present Day**

She stands there as the cold bites at her face and hands, turning the memory over in her mind, dissecting it for clues as to how to proceed. Even in her intoxicated state, she can see the moment that everything changed, can see what she should have done differently. How very useful hindsight is, she thinks, with the benefit of experience and a more detached, mature perspective. How very useful it would have been back then, when the admission of a simple, unequivocal truth could have led her down a very different path in life, one that intersected a certain brunette’s instead of running parallel, only ever crossing for brief, sometimes accidental, periods of time.

And how very painful it is to relive such a moment, knowing how futile it is to dwell on old mistakes when she can do nothing to change the past. Even now, it is too late; admitting the truth now, with everything that has happened, with everything that has been said and everything that has been left unsaid between them, would do no good.

Waverly had been right: she just has to accept it. 

Nothing would be the same between them again. Attempting to deny that wasn’t worth the pain and heartache and the struggle. 

Not again.

Not anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this should (by now) be clear that this will be a multi-chapter fic. I got this next chapter done quite quickly so I could upload it and make that clear haha.
> 
> Be prepared for a LOT more angst before things start getting even a little better...sorry. :(

**Purgatory, Present Day**

Waverly forces herself not to look in the rear view mirror as she speeds away down the street, away from the bar and away from the woman who has always had the power to manipulate her emotions, to both brighten and destroy her mood. 

Ever since _that day_ , the latter has been more common. 

The last thing she had expected upon walking back into _Shorty’s_ after two years away from Purgatory was to find Nicole Haught sitting at the bar, casually flirting with the friggin’ gorgeous barmaid - _obviously_ a new hire, and a completely unprofessional one at that, judging by the way - 

She stops herself mid-mental rant and blinks. Her fingers curl around the steering wheel just a _little_ more tightly, her white knuckles only briefly visible beneath the dim glare of the thinning streetlamps. Soon she’ll be on the darkened road out of town and on her way back to the homestead; knowing she’ll need to have all of her faculties calm and clear to navigate the sometimes-treacherous path home, she blinks again for good measure and forces herself to focus. 

It’s hard when the image of a certain redhead’s bewildered, desperate expression keeps drifting before her mind’s eye. 

By the time she arrives home, she is exhausted with the effort to keep her mind blank and her roiling emotions in check. Deflated, she drags her leaden legs up the few porch steps and through the cracked door; she isn’t the least bit surprised to find Wynonna lounging on the sofa with a bottle of beer and a half-eaten pizza. Her sister looks up and frowns at her as she slumps down into the armchair, thick coat still wrapped around her to fight off the countless drafts that wind their way through the old building. 

‘Didn’t expect to see you back so quickly,’ Wynonna remarks, clearly fishing for an explanation. 

Waverly sighs and throws her head back against the cushion behind her, toying with the idea of keeping her unexpected encounter to herself. But then she remembers that Wynonna has a knack of knowing what’s going on around the town and that she _must_ have heard that Nicole had returned, so she rolls her head to the side and fixes her with an accusatory gaze, eyes narrowed slightly in the way that her closest friends and family recognise spells trouble for them should they not proceed carefully. 

‘I ran into someone I wasn’t expecting to see.’ 

Wynonna catches her eye and then looks away, pretending to be engrossed in the commercial for a new wonder mop for the conscientious housewife, which just makes her feigned interest all the more comical and transparent. 

‘Oh yeah?’ she says, sipping her beer with obvious and deliberate caution. 

‘Mmhm. I don’t suppose you knew she was back, otherwise you surely would have told me before I made a complete fool of myself in front of half the town in _Shorty’s_.’ 

Again, a quick glance; Waverly stares back, daring her to lie. Ever the reckless rebel, Wynonna looks as though she just might try, but then she breathes out a heavy sigh and sits upright on the couch. 

‘Yeah, I heard she was back. I haven’t spoken to her, though.’ 

To say Waverly is surprised would be an understatement. The defiant expression slips for a moment as she frowns and leans forward. 

‘Why not?’ 

Whatever has happened between herself and Nicole Haught over the years, Waverly has _never_ wanted Wynonna to distance herself, too. It was the only _truly_ healthy friendship her sister had as a teenager; regardless of the fact that _she_ can hardly spend five minutes in the same room as the redhead without an argument or without one or the other of them digging up the ugly skeletons of the past, she understands what a loss the relationship was for Wynonna. Severing that connection would have hurt her almost as much as it did Waverly, she’s sure. 

One look at the sad attempt at a smile her sister offers her makes this fact all too clear. 

‘Nothing to talk about anymore,’ Wynonna shrugs. 

Waverly stands up and moves to sit next to her sister, one hand on her knee, a small gesture of comfort. Wynonna never has been one for grand displays of affection. Their mother’s early abandonment and their father’s cold, aloof parenting methods formed the perfect recipe for classic attachment issues; Waverly, on the other hand, hates that she _craves_ that intimacy and closeness that she was denied all through her childhood. 

Until she turned thirteen, that is, and one person showed her she _was_ worthy of affection, after all. 

‘You should talk to her. Try to reconnect. I'm sure she misses you as well,’ she says gently. Wynonna visibly flinches at the last two words and shakes her head. ‘Look, I know why you ended the friendship and I’m _so_ grateful for that kind of loyalty. It means more than I can say. But it’s been six years. Just because _I_ can’t forgive her, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.’ 

It feels good, Waverly thinks, trying to be selfless. Trying to help someone else with their struggles rather than suffocate under the stifling weight of her own. It may be a temporary distraction but it’s one that she will gladly grasp with both hands. 

‘Yeah, maybe,’ Wynonna replies. Another shrug. Another swig of beer. ‘So...what happened? When you saw her, I mean. Did she...did she look okay?’ 

The snorted scoff that rumbles at the back of Waverly’s throat is involuntary and finally makes her sister look at her again. There's little need for words, for an explanation, but Waverly forces herself to give one anyway. 

‘You know, the usual. I’m not even sure we made it to a hundred words between us this time.’ She blinks away the memory of Nicole’s gaunt face, of the perfectly-manicured fingers wrapped around her wrist on the bar. ‘She...didn’t look well. Worse than the last time I saw her.’ 

‘That was over a year ago,’ Wynonna observes pointlessly, as though Waverly can’t remember _every single time_ she has spoken to Nicole since that brief, bitter conversation outside the homestead six years ago. 

Because, try as she might, Waverly cannot forget the last exchange between them in the bedroom of her shared house, her belongings strewn across her bed and suitcases half-packed... 

***

 **University of Toronto,** **eighteen months** **ago (Waverly:** **2** **1** **, Nicole 2** **2** **)**

Waverly sings along to a rather banal pop song on the radio, hairbrush in hand as she loses herself in the peppy tune and forgettable lyrics. It is at times like these that she’s grateful for the quality of her singing voice; her housemates would certainly have something to say about the volume if she sounded like a dying llama, that’s for sure. But she doesn’t, so she blasts the music and allows it to envelop her, repressing the niggling anxiety over the fact that she has a little under forty-eight hours left before she needs to be on that plane to Europe. 

Such thoughts cannot be suppressed for long, however, and once the song peters out and the all-too-chirpy presenter chats over the end of it she is left staring at the organised chaos that is her bed: various articles of clothing line the mattress, from summer dresses to tight-fitting jeans, strappy sandals to a brand new pair of walking boots. She has read and re-read and _re_ -read the advice from her professor about the necessities for the semester abroad in Rome, but still she worries that she will forget something. As long as it’s not her passport, she reasons, everything will be fine. 

Well, perhaps not _everything_. 

Waverly shakes her head and allows herself to focus instead on the braid of excitement and nervousness that coils around her, squeezing at her heart as it thrums an irregular rhythm in her chest. She has waited for this moment for three years, toiled and sacrificed much-needed sleep many a night for the chance to be chosen for such an elusive opportunity; to be able to work on her thesis in the birthplace of her favourite ancient language, to walk the very streets where, two thousand years ago, the very emperors and citizens she has studied went about their daily business – it's a dream come true. Quite literally, if her recent nighttime fantasies are anything to go by. 

So why is there a part of her that fears leaving? 

When the next song plays, the opening is so quiet that she hears the doorbell ring downstairs. Muffled voices drift up from the open front door, but she pays them no mind, narrowing her eyes instead at the monumental decision before her: to take an extra bathing suit or not to take it? That, indeed, is the question. 

Her contemplation of such a dilemma is interrupted by the gentle knocking at her bedroom door. Her heart leaps to her throat almost immediately. 

She _knows_ that knock. 

It’s too distinctive, too irregular, to be replicated by anyone else, even accidentally. 

She hates that her hand trembles slightly as she twists the doorknob and pulls it open. 

The shock of red hair and nervous brown eyes still come as a surprise. 

‘Nicole? What are you _doing_ here?’ 

Nicole shuffles from one foot to the other, clenching and unclenching her hands, as though even _she_ doesn’t know the answer to that question. 

Suddenly remembering the murmurs downstairs that indicate at least two of her housemates are indoors, she reaches out and pulls the redhead into her room, closing the door with a force that’s not entirely intended. 

It still makes Nicole flinch. 

‘Well?’ Waverly prompts as she gestures for the other girl to sit in her computer chair. 

Nicole glances at it but doesn’t take up the offer, instead allowing her eyes to roam over the mess of clothes and toiletries on Waverly’s double bed. Her brow furrows briefly and she looks for all the world as though these very items have inflicted a great wrong upon her as she grits her teeth and her nostrils flare slightly. Waverly watches the muscle in her jaw pulse and knot but says nothing. 

‘So, it’s true then,’ Nicole finally says, and her voice is flat, almost devoid of emotion. 

It's something Waverly has become used to in between the bitterness and the anger and the awkwardness. 

She isn’t sure which version of Nicole she prefers nowadays. 

‘What is?’ she asks, seeking clarification for something to which she already knows the answer. 

Nicole slides her gaze over to where Waverly stands, arms folded across her chest in a way that she knows conveys her own discomfort. One that she knows Nicole will recognise immediately. It used to be that she would prise those same arms away and wrap her own around Waverly instead. 

That hasn’t happened for a long time now. 

‘You’re going away.’ 

It's a statement this time, not a question. And despite that same discomfort that forces her to dig her fingernails into her own flesh, Waverly raises her chin a little higher and nods. 

‘Yes. To Europe, to work on my thesis.’ She narrows her eyes ever so slightly as a thought occurs to her. ‘Who told you?’ 

Nicole finally sits down in the chair and waves her hand in a dismissive way. It’s an action that she _knows_ irks Waverly; it's one the brunette has seen far more often in their more recent (albeit sporadic) meetings. 

‘Does it matter?’ Nicole grunts. ‘It _should_ have been you.’ 

The growing irritation pulls Waverly’s hands away from her upper arms and perches them on her hips instead as she glares down at the sullen, pale face now turned upwards. 

‘I don’t have to inform you of every detail of my life,’ she retorts. ‘In fact, I don’t _need_ to tell you anything. You lost that privilege a long time ago.’ 

This is it, she thinks: the same argument will be resurrected for the umpteenth time, will exhaust them both, leave them empty and angry and alone once again. _'Twas_ _ever thus_ , Waverly thinks. 

Except it wasn’t. Not always. 

‘I know,’ Nicole sighs. 

Waverly watches as she visibly deflates, shoulders sagging as she exhales a defeated breath. It's so unlike her that Waverly _almost_ allows her own resentment to seep through the minute cracks in her armour, the one constructed bit by bit by the fury and the pain and the heartache over the years. 

But what would she be without it? What would she _do_ ? What would she finally _say_? 

The answer to those questions is one she still cannot bear to think about, so the sigh she offers in return is short and sharp. 

‘ _Why_ are you here, Nicole? If you came to try to talk me out of going – ’ 

‘I don’t know,’ Nicole interrupts. She's fiddling with the opening of her jacket pocket, which usually suggests she has something tucked away that she’s scared of showing Waverly. But that can’t be the case this time, because why would she give her _anything_ ever again? ‘I guess I just...wanted to see you one last time, before you go.’ 

‘It’s not forever,’ Waverly replies, and she’s surprised to find her tone has softened somewhat, its edge filed down by the open vulnerability that has carved Nicole into a living statue, all movements ceased as she sits stock-still on the chair. ‘It’s only six months, and then I’ll be back.’ 

Quite _why_ she’s telling Nicole this, she doesn’t know. It's not like they’ve been all that close for the past two years despite the half-hearted attempts to reconcile their many differences. She senses that this latest revelation will just be one more to add to the ever-growing list. 

‘You still could have told me,’ Nicole says, almost under her breath, almost as though she doesn’t intend for Waverly to hear it. 

But Waverly _does_ hear it; she hears the petulance, the same wounded-animal plea that used to work so well on her back in high school. 

They're not in high school anymore, though, and Waverly has learned to protect herself against such manipulation. 

‘Look, I’ve got a lot to do still,’ she deflects, waving an arm over the half-packed suitcases, ‘and I’m already behind schedule, so if you only came to say goodbye, then...’ She stops, knowing she should at least _try_ to be civil. ‘I’m thankful you came down,’ she tries. ‘It’s...good to see you again.’ She pushes aside the thought that perhaps it isn’t, not really. ‘I guess I can let you know when I’ve landed safely?’ 

It's an odd offer given the situation, but she doesn’t know what else to say. To her immense relief, Nicole simply accepts it with a slow nod and stands up. 

Waverly knows this is the last time she will see her for at least six months and she’s not sure how to feel about it. 

Sure, they’ve gone longer without meeting – once, without even _speaking_ – but the way that Nicole swallows and the way her eyes dart over Waverly’s face as though trying to memorise every feature feels somehow final. 

An end to something. 

She curls her toes into the carpet to stop the tears she knows are threatening. 

‘Can I – can I give you a hug? Just as a goodbye?’ 

It is so pitifully voiced that Waverly cannot help the nod she offers in reply. She thinks she glimpses something in Nicole’s hand as her arms wrap around her body and pull her into an awkward – yet always fierce, possessive even – embrace, but she forgets about it entirely as soon as the familiar scent of vanilla washes over her and familiar fingers splay across her back, pulling her closer. 

She would be lying if she tried to pretend she hasn’t missed this with every fibre of her being. And Waverly Earp is nothing if not a consummate truth-teller. Everyone knows she never lies. 

Not to others, at least. 

The hug lasts perhaps a _little_ too long to be considered entirely appropriate, but neither one comments upon it. 

When Nicole finally releases her, Waverly stumbles backwards a couple of steps, swallowing hard in an attempt to dislodge the uncomfortable lump in her throat. It's useless, of course. 

‘I guess I’ll be going, then,’ Nicole says. Waverly only nods. ‘I hope you enjoy your trip. I know you’ll be great at researching and writing your thesis.’ 

It's a weak smile that curls her lips for all of two seconds, but Waverly appreciates the effort all the same. 

‘Thanks. It’ll be an experience, at least. And I hope you enjoy working in the city. You know, protecting the innocent, catching the bad guys.’ 

She tries to chuckle but it dies as soon as it hits the tension that lingers between them. Nicole’s hand moves to the back of her neck and she glances at the desk beside Waverly for a moment before beginning to shuffle backwards towards the door. 

It's the last time Waverly sees her for the next eighteen months. 

In time, the memory will twist and warp into a bitter one that turns her stomach every time she thinks of what _might_ have happened if only she hadn’t been leaving the country. 

If only things had been different. 

If only... 

*** 

**Purgatory, Present Day**

Waverly’s hand strays to the collar of her blouse, one finger running across her clavicle, feeling the comforting ridge of the necklace that lies nestled beneath the fabric – the one nobody knows about. Not even Wynonna. 

The one that she still cannot justify wearing, but which she still cannot bring herself to take off and bury away in the back of a cupboard. 

It's a painful reminder of what _might_ have been... 

‘Maybe I’ll take a trip to the station tomorrow,’ Wynonna says suddenly, snapping Waverly out of her drifting thoughts. ‘Been a while since I annoyed Nedley. He's probably missing me.’ 

And as she bends to pick up the last slice of (surely by now cold) pizza, Waverly can’t help the small smile that ghosts across her lips. 

She certainly won’t resent Wynonna for reconnecting with their old friend. 

And she won’t resent Nicole for being able to bridge the emotional gap between the two of them; whatever else she feels, Waverly has only ever wanted her to be happy. 

She just wishes things were different so that she could share in that happiness, some way, somehow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, AO3 is having some trouble with formatting my chapters, for some reason (not only not indenting my paragraphs, but putting random spaces between punctuation and italicised words), so if anyone spots any, do let me know. I am a stickler for correct spelling, punctuation, and grammar and cannot bear to leave in any errors!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads-up: I'm probably going to re-jig the sub-headings in each chapter at some point - still toying with the idea. If I do, I'll just put a brief note to say that I've done it so it doesn't suddenly change for people who have already read the first few chapters.
> 
> Something slightly different in this chapter - hopefully you enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: Once again, AO3 doesn't like my formatting. It's leaving weird spaces in between words and punctuation that, this time, don't show up when I try to edit, so I apologise in advance for that nonsense. Sigh.

**Purgatory, Present Day**

She sits at her desk in the Purgatory Sheriff’s Department, rubbing at her temples as a dull headache pulses behind her eyes. She hopes the three attempts at brushing her teeth, the two cups of strong coffee, and now a handful of chewing gum will disguise the smell of the whiskey that she is sure is seeping through her pores; the last thing she needs is to be written up by her boss eight weeks into a brand new job. Sure, Sheriff Nedley knows her from years ago and always had a soft spot for her (for a reason she has never quite managed to fathom), but she doesn’t want to push her luck. 

The pounding in her head isn’t helped by the exhaustion that weighs on her, that has burrowed into her very bones; the image of Waverly’s stunned face haunted her waking moments until the early hours of the morning and a fitful hour or two of sleep was all she managed to snatch. To say she is in no mood for Lonnie’s persistent incompetence would be putting it mildly. 

She sighs as she finally manages to decipher his messy scrawl on top of the latest report. 

‘Lonnie, this is the wrong form,’ she says, _just_ about managing to keep her frustration from lacing her words. ‘We have a separate one for missing pets.’ 

She dismisses the thought – as she often does – that he has been working here far longer than her and somehow _still_ has no clue what he is doing half the time. She supposes it could be worse: Nedley could have deputised a fool like Champ fucking Hardy. 

_Small town, limited recruiting options,_ she thinks bitterly. 

She is hit with a creeping sense of déjà vu, words uttered long ago prodding at her bleary consciousness. 

_Small town, limited dating options. Why_ shouldn’t _I date Champ? You’ve_ _just_ _never liked him._

It's true: she never has. What sane, rational person _would_? 

Besides Waverly Earp, of course... 

A ripple of nausea curdles her stomach and rolls up her throat and she’s not so sure it has all that much to do with the half a bottle of whiskey that she so liberally downed the previous night. 

‘You okay, Haught?’ Lonnie asks, leaning away from his desk to peer at her pale, sweaty face. ‘You don’t look so good.’ 

‘I’m fine, Lonnie,’ she snaps. But she feels bad for such a response, so she sighs and tries again. ‘I’m good, thanks. Just had some bad chicken last night, I think.’ 

And, Lonnie being Lonnie, he simply nods and accepts her bullshit excuse without question. For once, she is grateful for his obliviousness. Without waiting to hear his follow-up, she pushes away from her own desk and walks to the bathroom as quickly as she can without drawing more attention to herself. 

She just about makes it into the nearest stall before the meagre contents of her breakfast – just black, bitter coffee – are hurled into the toilet along with the wad of now-flavourless chewing gum she was still desperately chewing. 

One day, she hopes, she’ll be able to think back on those painful few months without getting so worked up. 

Clearly, today is not that day. 

Standing up on shaking legs, she wipes her brow with the back of a trembling hand and stumbles over to the sink to freshen up the best she can before her absence is noted. 

She's splashing cool water over her clammy face when she hears the door open and her stomach lurches again. _Surely Nedley wouldn’t have_ _realised_ _already...?_

Blinking droplets out of her eyes, she looks over to find someone who is decidedly _not_ Randy Nedley leaning against the doorframe, arms folded across her chest in a way that is at once all-too-familiar and yet distinctly different. 

‘Not looking so _Haught_ today, Ginger Spice,’ Wynonna Earp quips, smirking as though they have been close friends for the past six years and not the strangers they have become. 

But even through the dull fog of stale whiskey and the water that is still trickling down her forehead, she can see that the humour doesn’t extend to those dark eyes that used to glint with mischief whenever they were together as kids. 

When she doesn’t offer a reply, Wynonna steps further into the bathroom, allowing the door to swing shut behind her with a soft _click_. ‘Next time, down a pint of water with some Chaser tablets. They work miracles. Or so I hear,’ she adds with a shrug. ‘Being an Earp, I don’t need anything except my stomach of steel perfected by generations of alcoholics.’ 

Perhaps if she wasn’t feeling quite so shitty, she would entertain the small talk from her oldest friend in Purgatory. 

But she does, so instead she straightens up fully and keeps her expression as impassive as possible. ‘What are you doing here, Wynonna?’ she asks as she pulls a tissue from the dispenser and scrubs it over her face. 

‘What, can’t an old friend pop in to say hello?’ She fixes Wynonna with a pointed, _don’t-give-me-that-bullshit_ stare and the middle Earp shrugs again. ‘I heard you were back and thought I’d see how you are. Pardon me for caring.’ 

She snorts her derision in spite of the twinge of guilt that twists her stomach, threatening a repeat performance that lost her both cups of her morning coffee. 

‘I’ve been back for two months already, and _now_ you decide to come say hi?’ She scoffs, hating the sound in her own ears. ‘Somehow I don’t think that’s a coincidence given last night’s events.’ 

This time, it’s Wynonna who pins her in place with a look that chills the sweat still lingering on her brow. ‘I didn’t see _you_ running to reconnect when you returned, either.’ 

She hears it then: the same petulance that has been her go-to defence mechanism whenever her conversations with Waverly over the past six years inevitably descended into a tumult of acidic words and childish arguments until neither had the heart nor the energy to continue. 

She hears how pathetic she must have sounded every time and she hates herself for it. 

Still, she falls into the old habit of justifying herself, wrapping herself in an armour of excuses to deflect having to hold herself to account for every mistake she has made over the years. She's not sure she would survive the self-flagellation. 

‘ _You_ stopped speaking to _me_ , remember?’ she retorts. 

She sees the truth hit its mark deep within Wynonna’s eyes, but only for a second. After all, it wasn’t just because of her parents’ neglect that she learned to fend for herself; she owes Wynonna Earp for a lot more than countless detentions and late-night laughs. 

‘And we _both_ know why I did that. Why I _had_ to do that,’ Wynonna says, anger and hurt infusing each word. ‘Anyway, that’s in the past. I heard you weren’t doing too good and I wanted to...I don’t know. Check on you, I guess.’ 

She can’t help it: the jibe crawls up her throat and past her lips before she can stop it. ‘And just what would _Waverly_ have to say about that?’ 

As has become customary over the years, an Earp surprises her with an unexpected response. ‘Who do you think encouraged me to speak to you?’ 

She reels as though she has been physically pushed, one foot slipping backwards as she attempts to maintain her balance; her head is spinning, and she’s still not sure it’s because of the hangover. 

She doesn’t know what to say, so she says nothing at all. 

‘Look, she may still be pissed as _hell_ because of all of your fuck ups, but she still cares about you. You'd really have to be a dumbass not to realise that.’ 

If she was being brutally honest with herself, she _had_ questioned it over the years. Of course, she had _hoped_ that, somehow, Waverly still... 

Still what? 

Liked her? 

_Loved_ her? 

She almost snorts again. Even if the latter was true, it was never in the way she wanted. 

Never in the way she needed most. 

In spite of everything, she still wishes things could just go back to the way they had been. Back before – 

‘Sometimes,’ Wynonna begins, and her voice is quieter now, as though she’s afraid of sharing her thoughts, ‘I wish we could go back to being kids. I was a mess, but things seemed so much...easier, you know?’ 

She _does_ know. She knows all too well. That's been her problem for the past six years. 

‘You remember the first time we met?’ Wynonna asks, a faint smile passing over her lips as the reminiscence takes hold. ‘It seems like so long ago now.’ 

Inevitably, she, too, is pulled into that hazy recollection of a moment in time before she knew either of the Earp sisters. 

Before they each changed her life in uncountable ways. 

***

 **Purgatory High School, ten years ago (Waverly: 13, Nicole: 14)**

Nicole stands outside the high school and stares up at the garish banner that adorns the wall above the entrance, proclaiming it to be the home of the Blue Devils. Whoever – or _what_ ever – they are. She doesn’t usually get invested in the schools’ sporting endeavours, knowing full well that she’ll likely be hauled to the other end of the country within months of settling. Her parents never have been fans of putting down too many roots in any one place. 

It's also the reason she has struggled to make any worthwhile, lasting friendships since elementary school. 

She doesn’t expect it to be any different here, in a tiny backwater town with a name ripped straight out of religious mythology and citizens who look like they would feel equally at home within the pages of such bullshit propaganda. 

With a resigned sigh, she trudges up the stone stairs to attempt her tiresome quest to find the administration office; she makes it all of three steps when she is bundled to the ground, her knees cushioning (except not really) her fall. 

Hard. 

She winces as the palms of her hands scrape on some loose stones before squeezing them into tight fists, ready to give the idiot a piece of her mind. 

When she looks up, though, she is met with piercing blue eyes set in a face that manages to somehow look both guilty and amused. The girl offers her a hand and drags her to her feet. 

‘Sorry ‘bout that, Ginger Pop Tart,’ she says cheerfully. Nicole opens her mouth to argue with the ridiculous nickname, but the girl turns her head and throws over her shoulder, ‘You jackass, see what you made me do?’ 

A tall boy wearing – Nicole nearly rolls her eyes at the cliché – a black Stetson saunters over, a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a grin curling his lips. 

She has seen so-called ‘bad boys’ like this before; none of them were as badass as they liked to think. 

‘Not my fault you took up the challenge so quickly,’ he retorts. ‘You should learn to keep an eye on your surroundings. You'd know that if you paid attention in – ’ 

‘Holliday, for _once_ , just shut the fuck up,’ the girl groans. She twists again to face Nicole and runs her hands down her arms, brushing off the tiny specks of dust that had risen and settled on her ratty denim jacket. Nicole fights the urge to push her away by flexing her fingers over and over until she’s done. ‘There. Good as new.’ The girl looks up into her face again, the smirk apparently ever-present. ‘You a freshie?’ 

‘Er,’ Nicole stutters, surprised at being addressed directly and so suddenly. ‘Yeah, I just...arrived here.’ 

‘Could tell a mile off. You’ve got fresh meat written all over you.’ 

Either she doesn’t see or she ignores the deep frown and downturned mouth that contort Nicole’s features at the observation. She's used to moving schools and she’s _never_ been ‘fresh meat’ in any one of them. Her offence isn’t allowed an outlet, though, as the girl puts one hand on her shoulder and begins to gently shove her up the stairs. 

‘Come on, let’s get you to the office so you can get all the shit you need to pretend you give a damn in this hellhole.’ She stops suddenly, her hand fisted into Nicole’s jacket and jerking her backwards. ‘Oh, I’m Wynonna, by the way.’ 

She stares at Nicole expectantly, and it’s clear she’s waiting for a reciprocal answer. 

‘Nicole. Nicole Haught.’ 

There it is: the lightbulb moment when people register her surname for the first time and prepare their very much _un_ original jokes. 

She's heard them all by now, and she readies herself to sigh at the latest failed attempt. 

‘I could already tell you were _Haught_ Stuff,’ Wynonna quips and she cackles at her own perceived genius. 

Nicole, though, arches one eyebrow and stares at her for a few moments until she finally subsides. ‘I’ve heard all the puns before, so I wouldn’t even bother.’ 

Rather than that putting an end to the matter, Wynonna’s sly smirk widens, her eyes lighting up with what Nicole can only describe as _mischief_. 

It's unsettling, to say the least. 

‘Oh, so a challenge, hm?’ the girl laughs. ‘I like those. I’m _good_ at those.’ 

_Fuck_ . This really _wasn’t_ the way Nicole had imagined the first fifteen minutes of her first day at her fifth school in as many years. She sighs and looks down the hallway, past the throng of students jostling along the corridor, squealing excited greetings as though they _haven’t_ seen each other every day of the summer break. 

‘Where’s the administration office?’ she asks wearily, already done with the day before it’s even truly begun. ‘I’m going to be late to first period if I don’t hurry up.’ 

Wynonna blows air through her lips in an almost contemptuous gesture. ‘Who even gives a shit. It's only French.’ 

‘For _you_ , maybe. I don’t know what I’ve got.’ 

‘You’re a freshman, so you’re the same as me, dingus.’ 

Again, Nicole’s skin prickles with indignation but, rather than act upon it as she usually would, she grits her teeth and swallows it down. She shoves her hands into her pocket and settles for a half-hearted glare instead. 

‘Ugh, _fine_ ,’ Wynonna sighs, correctly interpreting the look to mean _Are you going to help me or not?_ ‘It’s up here. Gives me an excuse to miss some of French, anyway.’ 

She tugs on Nicole’s arm before she can protest again, and they’re off, sucked into the hustle and bustle of high school life. 

*** 

If Nicole had thought she would be free of her brash and outspoken ‘friend’ for the rest of the day, she soon realises how utterly mistaken she was. 

Everywhere she goes, there’s Wynonna, often followed by a gaggle of other misfits, including the Holliday boy and another redheaded girl, whose name Nicole can barely remember from the whirlwind of introductions that followed. They pull her over to their table at lunch, the majority of which is spent roundly abusing the jocks and cheerleaders huddled together at the other end of the cafeteria, some of whom are laughing raucously and occasionally flicking grapes at passing students. Nicole manages a disgusted scoff and a disdainful shake of her head before she is dragged out to the courtyard and around the back of the bike shed, where the others promptly light up cigarettes. Feeling their eyes upon her, she accepts the one that Wynonna offers her without comment and sucks on it – too long and too deeply, for she immediately chokes and staggers backwards into a coughing fit. Wynonna's cackles ring in her ears as she shoves the death-stick back towards her; the brunette takes it without a word, still too busy laughing at her ineptitude. 

At the end of the day, when she thinks that she might finally have a moment’s peace to herself to digest the day’s events, she is proven wrong once again. 

‘Yo, nerd,’ Wynonna shouts at her as she prepares to face the long walk home. ‘Wait up.’ 

Nicole can’t help the frown she levels at the brunette; quite _why_ this girl insists on talking to her so much, she has no idea. She's not exactly been particularly receptive or welcoming towards her, hasn’t given any signs that she _wants_ a friend. 

She's not sure whether to be annoyed or oddly flattered. 

Given the girl in question, she thinks it’s probably a bit of both. 

‘All right, you don’t have to look _so_ pleased to see me,’ Wynonna laughs. 

‘I’m on my way home,’ Nicole mutters, feeling just the _slightest_ twinge of guilt for allowing the other girl to see her involuntary frustration. 

Despite the odd start to their acquaintance, Wynonna’s been...somewhat pleasant, for the most part. Nicole thinks that perhaps that’s as positive as it gets with such an odd character. 

‘You’re not far from us,’ Wynonna says, slinging an arm around her shoulder and hustling her further down the path towards the main road; Nicole doesn’t even bother to ask _how_ she knows that piece of supposedly confidential information. ‘We’ll walk with you.’ The furrowed brow becomes more pronounced as Nicole opens her mouth to ask to whom, exactly, ‘we’ refers, when she’s cut off by Wynonna’s sudden deafening shout: ‘Waves, get your cute little butt over here or we’re leaving without you!’ 

Turning her head to follow Wynonna’s line of sight, Nicole notices a petite girl standing further down the street, talking animatedly with someone; she throws a narrowed glare at them before offering a quick goodbye and jogging over to where they stand. 

‘You don’t have to be so _loud_ and obvious,’ the younger girl complains with a huff. ‘Or so rude. I was talking to Chrissy.’ 

‘Don’t care,’ Wynonna says shortly. ‘We’re leaving. Oh, and this is Haught Pants. She’s just moved to this shithole, so be nice. Haught Pants, this is my baby sister, Waverly.’ 

Waverly scoffs and rolls her eyes, but all hint of irritation vanishes as soon as she turns her attention to Nicole; she flashes a warm smile at her instead and Nicole suddenly becomes aware of how her honey-brown hair falls _just so_ over her lightly-tanned shoulders, left bare by the strappy top she is wearing, and of how her green – no, hazel, she thinks – eyes catch the waning rays of the sun and sparkle just a little. 

She almost groans out loud at the clichés that run through her head. 

Another few seconds pass before she realises both girls are staring at her, waiting. 

‘Oh, er...I’m Nicole,’ she says dumbly. 

Waverly giggles, the sound light and dainty in Nicole’s ears. ‘Well, I didn’t think your name was _actually_ ‘Haught Pants’. But it’s nice to meet you, Nicole.’ 

Wynonna huffs and begins to move again, pulling the other two along with her without even touching them. At first, they walk in silence, questions swirling through Nicole’s mind as she steals occasional glances at the younger girl, trying to fall into step beside her but failing because of the very _obvious_ height difference between them. 

She’s concentrating too hard on her own feet to realise that Waverly is talking to her. ‘ – move from?’ 

‘Huh?’ she says blankly. 

Waverly smiles and tries again. ‘Where did your family move from?’ 

‘Oh, um...well, we were in Ontario for the last eight months.’ 

‘Only eight months?’ Waverly frowns. ‘Why did you leave?’ 

Nicole _just_ about manages to bite back the scoff that vibrates in the back of her throat, the scathing retort that flutters against her lips. 

‘Yeah, er...we move around a lot because of my dad’s job.’ 

She doesn’t offer any more information than that; Waverly seems friendly enough, but she doesn’t know her from Adam. Only one person knows her feelings about her family and their _situation_ , and she hasn’t spoken to her for a long time now... 

The rest of the walk passes in similar fashion, with Waverly (and occasionally Wynonna) asking her questions and she offering succinct answers in kind; occasionally she throws out something more humorous, which makes Waverly laugh, and the sound never fails to make her smile in response. 

Soon enough, though, they’re standing outside her house; she tries not to look too disappointed as the sisters wave at her – well, Waverly waves; Wynonna flips the bird at her and smirks – and continue on their way down the street. 

As she stands there, she can’t help but feel that being accidentally wrestled to the ground by Wynonna within minutes of her first day at school might just be the best thing that’s happened to her in a long time. 

*** 

**Purgatory, Present Day**

And, in spite of the sadness that still smothers her, she smiles. 

‘Hardly going to forget the day you almost broke my neck and practically forced a death-stick on me.’ 

Wynonna snorts a laugh. ‘ _Forced_. As if. You were all over that shit. Not my fault you were an amateur back then.’ 

‘And _whose_ fault is it that I became a pro by the age of fifteen?’ Nicole throws back, raising one eyebrow; she can’t help the way her lips twitch as she fights against a grin. 

‘Eh, you managed to quit eventually. No harm, no foul.’ 

She wants to ask whether Wynonna still smokes, to ask how Doc and Mercedes and the others are, to ask what on earth she’s been doing for the past eighteen months, but she doesn’t. It’s too much, too soon, and having _that_ conversation – the one that will inevitably lead to vague hints about _why_ they haven’t spoken properly for six years – in the middle of the station’s visitors’ bathroom doesn’t exactly seem right. 

So, she nods and gestures in the direction of the door behind Wynonna. ‘I have to get back. Nedley’ll be in to check I haven’t fallen into the toilet otherwise.’ 

Wynonna nods in return and looks like she might say something, her hand leaving the safety of her pocket for a second before dipping back in; instead, she follows her out of the bathroom and hovers awkwardly by the front desk for a few moments before hooking her thumb over her shoulder towards the exit. 

‘I gotta go, but, er...’ It’s awkward – they both know that – but they try to ignore it. ‘Yeah.’ 

She watches as Wynonna turns and leaves and can’t help wondering whether that’ll be the last time they speak. Gone are the days when they were almost inseparable – at least until she became _much_ closer to Waverly – and she’s irritated to find that she misses them. 

More than she can say. 

More than she will ever admit out loud. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me again! Sorry it's been so long - I still do not have internet in my new apartment here, so am having to update this sneakily at work! Hoping to get the issue resolved soon so I can also update my other fic.
> 
> I hope the last of summer/winter (in whichever hemisphere you happen to be reading this!) is treating you well.
> 
> Without further ado, here we go...

**Purgatory High School, Present Day**

Waverly breathes out a long sigh as she marks the fifteenth scribbled essay on the fall of the Roman empire, this latest one replete with incorrect dates and no less than four different misspellings of the name of the final emperor to reside in Italy, Romulus Augustulus. Glancing at the student’s name, she shakes her head when she remembers his declaration to major in history at college and vows to offer additional tuition after school despite the fact that her schedule is already crammed with extra-curriculars. She _had_ insisted on running that lunchtime Latin club, which, although she doesn’t regret it, does stretch her already minimal time to the limit.

 _Still,_ she reasons, _sacrifices must be made in order to educate the young minds of the future..._

She snorts. Very few of Purgatory’s ‘young minds’ appreciate the value inherent in either subject, so inured are they to their families’ willingness to cling to their small-town ignorance.

With this lamentable thought, Waverly grips her pen tighter and squints more closely at the writing in front of her, more determined than ever to help Michael Rameker achieve what he needs to succeed in college.

It is with only twenty minutes to spare before her first period of the day that she stretches her arms above her and yawns against the fatigue that she feels seeping into her stiff limbs. Her coffee cup now depleted, she resolves to grab one last liquid pick-me-up before the inevitable wave of teenagers floods her classroom.

Waverly smiles - a weary yet contented smile - as she thinks of the young adults she is slowly beginning to get to know. She’s worked at Purgatory High School for all of three weeks now and yet her sense of purpose, of _belonging_ , has never felt so strong. Whilst bitter memories still lurk in hidden corners - in deserted classrooms, dented lockers, within the discoloured lines of the old gymnasium and the freshly-painted ones of the football field - they fade with each fresh day, with every lesson she teaches. Some of her colleagues (particularly those jaded by the system, their bursting enthusiasm eroded by years of inane government policies and monotony) scoff at her bright-eyed eagerness. _Naive,_ they mutter in her mind. _She’ll never last,_ they sneer in her dreams.

Yet here she is, marching down familiar corridors, past familiar classrooms, wearing the _un_ familiar mantle and wielding the unaccustomed power of a _teacher_ , a role to which she feels almost drawn. The clichéd moth to a flame.

She hopes the metaphor doesn’t spell the same danger for her.

Frowning at the morbid turn her thoughts have taken, Waverly rounds the corner that leads to the staff room...and walks straight into an obstacle blocking her path.

‘Oh, sorry,’ she mutters as she stumbles to balance herself. ‘I didn’t see - ’

Looking up from her feet, she almost _audibly_ sucks in a breath.

For, standing in front of her, looking terribly out of place in her starched deputy’s uniform, is Nicole Haught.

The frown returns.

‘Nicole? What are you doing here?’

A twinge of déjà vu pinches the edges of her memory but she quickly dismisses it.

‘Waverly? You work here?’ Nicole’s brow furrows in an almost identical expression of confused doubt. ‘ _Here_?’

Waverly swears she can almost _hear_ the ‘Of all places?’ that Nicole so clearly wants to add. But, to her credit, the redhead refrains.

Her disdain is no less pronounced for the restraint she is trying so hard to exercise.

‘Yes,’ Waverly replies. Stiffly. Coldly, one might say. ‘But why are _you_ here? Did James set fire to some curtains again?’

The name apparently registers with Nicole - for who _doesn’t_ know the latest iteration of Hardys to grace the school’s grubby hallways? - and the tiny muscles around her right eye twitch. Just for a moment. Just enough for Waverly to notice.

‘No. It’s Careers Day and Nedley asked me to represent the PSD this year.’

 _Of course._ The event they all looked forward to with equal amounts of boredom and disinterest as teens themselves. Well, _almost_ all: Waverly was not-so-secretly rapt by the various pathways that unfolded before her eyes as she listened to the different speakers enthuse about their professions and why each of her switched-off classmates should consider them.

‘I guess you drew the short straw, huh,’ Waverly jokes, an attempt to ease the tension that has once again infiltrated their conversation.

It _almost_ works.

Nicole huffs a quiet laugh - if it can be called such - and rubs the back of her neck as she glances at the trophy cabinet next to them. Waverly realises that she must have been looking at it when they had collided - well, when _she_ had collided with Nicole. Her own eyes are drawn to it, her gaze immediately finding the replica Blue Devils cheerleading uniform next to the regional championship trophy the school had won during her junior year.

The first year she had captained the team.

The year that she had finally agreed to pay Champ Hardy some attention and give in to his persistent advances.

The year that everything went wrong between them…

‘I remember when you told us you wanted to join the team,’ Nicole murmurs, eyes still fixed on the pristine uniform behind the glass. ‘Wynonna was disgusted. She thought it would turn you into one of the ‘mean girls’ in the school, that you’d become too popular to hang out with losers like us.’

Waverly snorts. ‘She didn’t even _want_ me to hang out with you guys most of the time. I was just the annoying baby sister.’

Nicole shakes her head but doesn’t look at the brunette. ‘No. She only acted that way because of the others. She liked the idea of you being close, away from the jocks and the girls who thought they owned the school.’

Nicole had always been careful with her words, but Waverly had always been able to read between the lines to gauge her true feelings.

Most of the time.

‘Girls’ was _Nicole_ for ‘catty bitches’. Unseen by the redhead, Waverly’s lips curl up into a half-smile.

‘And yet you supported my application for the team,’ she says, and it’s _almost_ a question. One to which she never fully understood the answer. ‘You didn’t make fun of me when I practised like Wynonna did. You came to every game and cheered me on, even though you hated it.’

The hand is back, rubbing at the taut muscles in Nicole’s neck and shoulder. Waverly wonders if she even realises she’s doing it half the time.

‘Yeah, of course. It made you happy.’

It’s such a simple statement, yet it still steals the breath she had been exhaling. That Nicole would routinely put herself through such tedium, would risk Wynonna’s scathing jibes and whining rants every weekend, just to make her happy…

Waverly realises she had never actually asked Nicole _why_ before. It feels like a missed opportunity now, as they stand looking at fraught memories of years past.

It also feels like a clue, a thread to follow to the centre of the maze that is Nicole’s guarded heart.

Waverly had become lost in that maze more than once over the past ten years.

She wonders if she’ll ever actually reach the centre and learn the truth.

‘I don’t think I would have made it through my first game if you hadn’t been there,’ she admits. ‘I was so nervous.’

Again, a huffed laugh from Nicole. ‘Yeah, I remember you puking in the toilet beforehand.’

Waverly groans. She had worked hard to blot _that_ particular memory from the messy canvas of her mind: of the retching, the stinging tears in her eyes, with Nicole beside her the whole time. Nicole, holding her hair back and rubbing soothing circles into her back.

But standing in front of the uniform with Nicole by her side - as she always had been during those years - she cannot help but picture it all too vividly…

***

**Purgatory High School, nine years ago (Waverly: 14, Nicole: 15)**

‘You’re going to be great,’ Nicole says, raising her voice slightly over the sound of Waverly’s dry heaving. ‘Just remember all the practice you’ve done. All those hours you spent in your bedroom making sure each move was perfect. You’ve got this.’

Waverly tries to respond, but her stomach rolls again and a thin stream of bile trickles out from her burning throat. She wants to correct Nicole - all those hours _they_ spent in her bedroom, Nicole scrutinising the video and offering feedback on each move over and over and _over_ again until Waverly was satisfied she had it _just right_ \- but she can’t force the words out through her choked breaths.

Eventually, the trill of Chrissy Nedley’s voice floats into the room; Waverly hastily wipes her mouth with a tissue and deposits it into the toilet as she pulls the handle to flush. When Nicole follows her out of the stall, Chrissy eyes them both, her suspicion arching one eyebrow momentarily.

‘Waves, we have to go,’ she chirps with a darted look at Nicole, attempting to gauge what had happened in the moments before she arrived. ‘Steph is going to _kill_ us if we’re late for the first game of the season.’

‘Yeah, I’m - I’m coming,’ Waverly replies, a little breathlessly as she furtively tries to steady herself. She can sense Nicole’s gaze on her, the redhead hovering at her shoulder as she washes her hands at the sink, her fingers _just_ brushing the small of Waverly’s back. ‘Just give me one more minute.’

‘Sure,’ Chrissy says slowly, lingering a few moments more before returning outside.

For a a couple of seconds, the raucous whoops and cheers from the football field slip into the room before the door closes again with a soft _click_. The noise jolts Waverly into action, her hands trembling slightly as she splashes her face with lukewarm water in an effort to disguise the thin sheen of sweat that dots her forehead and top lip.

‘You’re going to be great,’ Nicole repeats, and it is with this endorsement ringing in her ears that Waverly steels herself and marches out to meet up with the rest of the cheerleading squad.

Stephanie Jones throws her a pointed look but doesn’t stop her sharp pep talk, reminding them all (very hyperbolically, Waverly thinks) of what’s at stake: the Blue Devils’ reputation, honour, their very _dignity_. It does nothing to ease the jitters that skate across Waverly’s frayed nerves, but she inhales a deep breath as she follows her captain onto the field.

Almost immediately, the wall of noise bears down upon her, the hollers from the crowd mingling with the fainter boos and hisses of the opposition. Shielding her eyes from the glare of the floodlights, Waverly scans the nearby bleachers for any sign of friendly faces; she soon finds it in the form of Wynonna, Gus, Curtis, and Nicole, three of whom wave enthusiastically at her when they spot her looking. Wynonna, however, throws her a quick half-salute and goes back to scrolling through her phone and munching on what appears to be popcorn. The familiar sight calms her nerves further and she squares her shoulders as she takes her place along the sidelines and grabs a pair of shiny pom-poms, ready to cheer until her voice is hoarse.

She _will_ prove the needling voice in her head wrong; she _will_ be great.

Just as Nicole believes.

***

Throughout the game, Waverly sneaks glances over at the bleachers several times, sometimes when she has to twirl into a move, or after kicking her leg up as high and straight as she can, every time wanting to see the reaction of those whose opinions and judgements she values most. Each time, Wynonna is either looking down or trying to get Nicole’s attention to show her something; Curtis’ eyes are glued to the game itself as he alternately cajoles and bemoans the players’ efforts; Gus offers an encouraging thumbs-up one time, but is busy muttering to Curtis the others.

Nicole, though…

Every time Waverly looks up, Nicole’s eyes are fixed upon her. Not the game itself (though she had never been a great football enthusiast, anyway), and not the cheer squad in general, but _her_.

At first, Waverly wonders if Nicole is scrutinising her moves just as she had done throughout the hours of practice they had endured together. But then she realises that _this_ look is...different, somehow. More focused.

More...intense.

It _should_ unnerve her - and, indeed, it _does_ the very first time she spots it - but by the end of the game, Waverly finds she actually _welcomes_ the attention. The fact that _someone_ is interested only in _her_ performance is flattering, comforting, even. Being the youngest of three sisters, she had never been _anyone’s_ sole focus, sole concern.

Her final kick as the whistle blows is the best one yet and she grins to herself when she catches sight of Nicole applauding along with the rest of the crowd.

It _could_ be for the team, for their first win in many months.

Somehow she knows that it’s not.

Not for the first time in the year that she has known Nicole, she feels a surge of gratitude and warmth flood her body, the latter having very little to do with the rigorous workout she has just completed.

As she trots after the rest of the squad to shower and change, Waverly can’t help but think that _everyone_ should have a friend like Nicole Haught.

She’s not even sure she deserves her, but she’ll treasure her nevertheless.

***

**Purgatory High School, Present Day**

‘You know, ironically, I think that may have been my best performance all year,’ Waverly sighs, her fingertips brushing cool glass as she stares at the uniform. ‘And it was all down to you.’

Nicole snorts her disbelief. ‘Of course it wasn’t. You were brilliant all by yourself. I had nothing to do with it.’

‘Modest as ever,’ Waverly mutters, rolling her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t have been able to even go _onto_ the field without your encouragement, let alone dance that well. And every time I looked up, there you were, watching me, reminding me of everything we’d been through to get there.’

She senses rather than sees Nicole tense beside her; when she glances over, she spots the clenched fist by the redhead’s side, the other hand at the back of her neck again. Waverly frowns.

What had she said to prompt _that_ reaction?

She’s about to voice that very question when she’s cut off by the principal’s hearty voice booming down the corridor. ‘Nicole - or should I say _Officer_ \- Haught,’ he laughs with a wink. ‘It’s great to see you back here after all these years.’

‘Principal Moody,’ Nicole smiles - but it’s thin, weary, forced. Her hand falls from her neck and grips the one offered by their old teacher. ‘It’s good to be back.’

‘Ms. Earp,’ the man nods at Waverly. ‘I’ve heard great things about your classes so far. Keep up the good work.’

Waverly blinks, surprised by the compliment; it’s the first time he’s spoken to her since a brief welcome meeting for the new staff at the beginning of the term. To say his words are unexpected would be an understatement.

‘Oh, er - thank you, sir,’ she stutters.

She catches the second smile that Nicole offers, and this time it’s anything _but_ forced. _This_ time, it’s genuine, warm. _Proud_.

It takes her even more off-guard.

She is spared the awkwardness of trying to think of more to say when a freshman boy stumbles around the corner and drops his books right at her feet. His slick brown hair and cheeky grin are all too familiar to her as he bends to scoop up his belongings.

His hasty apology is swallowed up by Moody’s gentle reproach. ‘Watch where you’re going, Hardy. Get those books into your locker so you don’t lose them.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the boy mumbles. As he glances up, he spots Waverly and beams. ‘Ms. Earp - my cousin said to tell ya he can make it tonight, after all.’

And, with that, he’s off, joining the growing swell of students pouring into the hallway through the main entrance. Waverly catches the eye roll before it can take hold and sighs. She had hoped to avoid _that_ particular after-school meeting, and yet…

When she returns her attention to the conversation at hand, it is to find Nicole watching her, smile gone, lips now pursed into a thin, tight line instead.

‘Hardy?’ Nicole asks quietly, and Waverly doesn’t know whether it is meant to be rhetorical or not.

Moody, apparently, decides it’s not. ‘Thankfully nothing like his older cousin, Champ,’ the principal chuckles. ‘I’m not sure we’ve ever had a more boisterous student grace these halls since he left. He was the same year as you, if I remember rightly?’ he adds, addressing Waverly.

She nods, a wordless agreement, her gaze never leaving Nicole’s.

Nicole, who still seems to be appraising her with a cold eye.

Waverly doesn’t need to be psychic to know exactly what she is thinking: the mere mention of _Champ_ is enough to dredge up painful memories for the both of them.

It is with an almost palpable sense of relief that the tension is broken by Moody’s offer to take Nicole to the staff room for a quick cup of coffee before her presentation to the students. With barely a glance at Waverly, Nicole follows him down the hallway, leaving the brunette to curse the Hardy name as she returns to her own classroom, decidedly coffee-less despite her earlier intentions.

It’s just one more setback to sour her already irritable mood.

She pities the student who tries to cross her on _that_ particular day. Heaven knows they will inevitably feel the full force of her wrath.

 _Somebody_ has to or else she is liable to do something both she and others will live to regret…


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter update time for this one - whoop! And I've already started the next chapter, so there's that.
> 
> For those waiting for the next chapter of my other fic, it IS coming, I promise! I've just been off sick from work and it's on my hard drive which is...yep, in work. Doh.
> 
> Anyhoo, I hope you enjoy this one. :) I won't give the usual caveat as you know the drill by now about how I feel about each chapter in this experimental fic haha.

**Purgatory, Present Day**

She follows Moody down the hallway and tries to listen to his rambling about the ‘good old days’. She really does. He’s a nice enough guy, but her attention is otherwise occupied, still lingering over the words of the Hardy boy.

_My cousin said to tell ya he can make it tonight, after all._

It’s been six years since she saw Champ (she internally balks at the mere thought of his name), but even a nameless reference to him is enough to twist her insides into knots and catapult her mind back to the eighteen-year-old, righteously-indignant teenager who had thoughtlessly ruined the best thing that had ever happened in her short, miserable life.

She wonders if she’ll ever be able to move on from that time.

With Waverly now back in town, working within the very institution that she has grown to despise, she highly doubts it.

It is with a weary effort that she drags her focus back to the present situation and the awkwardness that lies ahead of her: Careers Day presentations. She wishes she had fonder memories of this event, but she’s not Waverly; she was never fascinated by the myriad opportunities the world had to offer. From a young age, she had been set on a career in law enforcement - every other ‘prospect’ paled in comparison and thus she had paid them no mind. She was content to graduate from the academy and return to Purgatory, to defend the sleepy town from vandals and drunken hooligans and nothing more sinister than that.

She had always known that Waverly Earp was destined for greater things than the oppressive boundaries Purgatory had to offer. So to see her back here, as a high school teacher, caged within the walls of the place that embodied the town’s low expectations, its bigotry and narrow-mindedness, was nothing short of...disappointing.

That was it: _that_ was the feeling that wormed its way through her veins every time she saw Waverly.

That, and nothing more.

At least, that was what she tried to tell herself.

Moody’s all-too-cheerful voice drags her back to the present-day school hallways from which she still would rather run. ‘I’ll bet you never expected to glimpse inside such a hallowed room, eh?’ he winks as he holds the door to the teachers’ lounge open for her.

She edges inside, trying to ignore the glances of both the familiar and the new faces that turn towards her one by one. A couple of the teachers smile at her, clearly recognising her shock of red hair from years past; others barely register her presence as they gulp down hot drinks and fluster about collecting papers and books. She’s surprised to realise that her first thought is about Waverly, about how she copes in such a hectic environment - the girl who was so organised she had specific colours for each subject folder in school, who arranged her collection of non-fiction books using the Dewey-Decimal system on her own bookshelves in her bedroom.

Then again, she reasons, Waverly _had_ worked in _Shorty’s_ for a spell. Perhaps this wasn’t anything too chaotic compared to _that_.

She accepts the mediocre coffee Moody hands her - _Black, no sugar. Thanks._ \- without comment and tries not to reveal her disgust as the burnt, acrid bitterness hits her tongue, instantly scalding it; clearly these are _not_ the sort of people that understand coffee should _not_ be made with boiling water. When Moody’s attention is otherwise engaged, she furtively pours the rest of the mug down the sink and washes it out, ready for the next poor sucker who needs a quick, shoddy caffeine fix.

As she stands there, tucked into herself by the door and listening to the tired mutters that hum throughout the room, she feels her skin crawl; she had never exactly _liked_ school - indeed, had never really been given the chance to with all the moving - but standing in the very heart of the building that represents her worst memories of Purgatory...it’s enough to make her want to flee the school and never step foot in it again.

It’s ridiculous, she knows.

It’s also pathetic.

A grown-arse woman unable to withstand a couple of hours in her old school.

A _police officer_ reduced to a seething mess of anxiety, fuelled by nothing but her early-morning, home-brewed coffee and a roiling anger over _so many things_.

It’s about time she learns to deal with her shit and move on, she reckons. If only it were that simple…

‘Ah, you’ve finished your drink,’ Moody chirps next to her, making her flinch; she realises she has been staring rather rudely (and completely unconsciously) at her old French teacher, who, she now sees, is frowning back at her. ‘I think it’s time we made our way to the classroom for the first batch of tired-eyed teenagers. Hopefully your rousing endorsement of our fine officers in blue will help perk them up a bit.’

She grimaces - for it _is_ a grimace, not an actual smile - at the man as he chuckles to himself and follows him out of the teachers’ lounge. The grumblings around the photocopier and the heavy sighs that accompany the shuffling of yet-to-be-graded papers fade away, replaced by the incessant, shrieking laughter of the teenagers that throng the hallway. She is reminded of _her_ first day here all over again, standing in this very corridor as Wynonna had attempted to convince her that missing a bit of French wasn’t all that terrible, really.

Who knew that she would end up agreeing with the rebellious Earp, after all…

Minutes later and she’s walking into one of her old classrooms - English Lit, based on the Shakespeare posters and quotations that are peeling off the stained walls - and she tries not to picture the last time she was here, slumped in the chair in the back row, wishing away the days until she could graduate and move onto what she _really_ wanted to do in life. If someone looked _really_ hard, they would see the pair of initials etched into the side of the desk during one particularly tedious lesson on poetry. She _almost_ wants to check it herself, but refrains as Moody stands at the front of the room, gesturing for her to join him.

As he witters on about the importance of Careers Day and how school is just the testing ground for the ‘real world’ (the same speech she heard every year she was here, too - it hasn’t changed _at all_ ), she glances over the sea of bored, apathetic faces. None of them _want_ to be here - except perhaps that one girl in the front row, staring at her with wide eyes and a smile on her face as she takes in the uniform and the various tools of the trade strapped to her belt. She offers a quick nod of her head and the girl averts her eyes, embarrassed to be caught staring, so she continues on to the back of the class.

It isn’t long before the same crop of blonde-brown hair catches her eye and she spots the boy from earlier. _Hardy_. An unfortunate legacy handed down to him, she thinks. For _everyone_ in Purgatory knows the Hardys’ reputation, stretching back further than the shit stain that is _Champ_.

Again, her insides convulse at the thought. She clenches her hand into a fist at her side to quell the feeling, trying not to think of him, nor the many times she had to keep her dislike (no, not strong enough: her _loathing_ ) of him in check.

She remembers all too well the first time she _really_ took notice of him - or rather, the first time he warranted her attention - that night after Waverly’s first game…

***

**Purgatory High School, nine years ago (Waverly: 14, Nicole: 15)**

With a final reassuring nod at Waverly’s retreating back, Nicole fights her way through the crowd to take her seat in the stands with Wynonna, Gus, and Curtis. Predictably, her friend is glued to her phone, no doubt messaging Doc (something she does _not_ want to think about after the last time she had naïvely asked what they spent all their time talking about) and seems thoroughly uninterested in the fact that this is her baby sister’s big moment in the spotlight.

She _wants_ to berate her, to tell her to stop being so self-absorbed for _one goddamn day_ in her life, but then the squad skips onto the field and all she can think about is Waverly.

In _that_ uniform.

Showing altogether _far_ too much skin to the hundreds-strong, whooping crowd.

Why she hadn’t really noticed it before, Nicole doesn’t know; she reckons the sight of Waverly vomiting into the toilet and trembling head-to-toe from sheer nervousness might have something to do with it.

Now, though…

_Now_ she looks excited - still nervous, yes, but the electric energy of the crowd appears to have livened her up, sparked the anxiety into something fearless, ready to take on the world. Or at least this one game.

Nicole can’t help the broad grin that splits her face as she waves at her friend, hoping her own supreme confidence in Waverly’s abilities will somehow translate well enough through that one gesture.

Apparently, it does, for Waverly returns the smile and begins to warm up with gusto.

There are mere moments to kick-off and Nicole feels the shift in the air, the tension building to a head as everyone anticipates the start of it all. The raucous chatter and shouts die down to a low hum, murmurs as the referee signals to both teams to ready themselves. It’s nods all around and then the shrill shriek of the whistle begins it all and the shouts return with vigour.

But Nicole isn’t interested in the game.

As soon as the players move, the cheer squad commences their first routine, and the sight precludes everything else for Nicole. Her vision almost tunnels to the point that only one person registers.

Waverly.

In _that_ uniform.

Kicking her leg so high her entire thigh is exposed and her modesty is only maintained by the tight lycra sports pants she has on underneath.

Nicole swallows - _hard_ \- and glances over at Wynonna. Her fears that her friend might have caught her staring at her baby sister are unfounded, however, as the older Earp is _still_ mesmerised by her phone; the smirk twisting her lips tells Nicole all she needs to know about what, precisely, she is messaging to Doc and she looks away again.

Sometimes, she wishes _she_ could be as bold and brazen as Wynonna. To say what she really means, to ask for what she really wants, to reveal what she’s really thinking.

But that would entail all manner of awkwardness and embarrassment and _consequences_ , so she skirts around it all, buries it deep so nobody will ever know.

So that even _she_ can live in denial.

So that she can repress...well, _everything_.

So that she can avoid the inevitable disappointment that would follow.

Instead, she returns her attention to the one thing that is guaranteed to make her smile.

Waverly.

Grinning up at her now as she completes a particularly difficult move, one that she has worked on for hours and hours and _hours_ until she was satisfied she had it down pat. Until Nicole gave her the thumbs up and replayed the footage on her cheap camera phone to prove to Waverly that she had executed it flawlessly.

Just as she has done tonight.

Just as Nicole knew she would.

***

The game fizzles out to an end at some point; Nicole only realises because the cheerleaders round off their final routine of the night and then celebrate on the sidelines, jumping up and down and waving their shiny pom-poms around haphazardly, something she has not seen Waverly do before.

She is still reeling from Waverly’s final move of the night, a kick so high and straight it is almost _elegant_ \- no, there is no _almost_ about it. It’s a thing of beauty.

The pride that surges through Nicole in that moment is something she has never experienced before, not even for her own - albeit minimal - accomplishments over the years.

She stands and applauds with the rest of the crowd, but she doubts they are cheering for the same thing. She doesn’t even know the score, nor which team won; her sole focus is, and always has been, the petite brunette now hugging and squealing along with her friends.

As the squad makes their way off the field to shower and change, Nicole elbows her way through the departing crowd to wait outside the locker room, ready to tell Waverly just how fantastic she had been.

Just as Nicole knew she would be.

She paces up and down the hallway, glancing every so often between the girls’ locker room door and the trophy cabinet lining one side of the corridor. It is woefully bereft of any achievements, so poorly have the school’s teams performed over the years. Just another reason not to get overly excited about the football team this year, as if she had intention of doing so, anyway.

It’s as she’s standing there, bouncing from one foot to the other, that she finally hears the unmistakable lilt of Waverly’s voice drifting out from the locker room and the girl herself appears, laughing and talking animatedly with Chrissy Nedley. At the same time as Nicole prepares to walk over, the boys’ door opens and her view of Waverly is blocked by the hulking figure of one of the football players. It’s difficult to tell from the back, but she thinks she recognises him as one of the freshmen in Waverly’s year.

Not wanting to intrude, she hangs back, pretending to be fascinated by the near-empty trophy cabinet once more.

Later, she will come to regret that decision.

‘Hey, Waves,’ the boy says, far too cheerfully for Nicole’s liking. Her thoughts stick on the nickname - the one that only a handful of people call the youngest Earp - and she bristles slightly. ‘You looked good out there tonight.’

He sounds as though he is trying to be _smooth_ , but his tone is one that makes Nicole grind her teeth as she glares at the back of his head. Though she cannot see her face, she _knows_ Waverly’s cheeks will be stained with an adorable blush right about now and she frowns.

_Who the_ fuck _is this kid?_

Waverly’s giggle floats down the hallway and burns her ears.

‘Oh, I messed up _so_ many moves,’ the brunette deflects. ‘I know I can do better. But it was a great game! You guys were amazing.’

‘Yeah, well, getting the team’s first win in a long time feels good,’ the boy boasts, or so Nicole hears. He’s now leaning against the wall, Waverly _just_ visible to the side of him. ‘Hopefully more to come now I’m part of the team.’

He laughs as though it’s a joke, but Nicole just _knows_ it’s not. The confidence - no, _arrogance_ \- underpinning his words tells her otherwise. Waverly smiles at him and tucks some loose strands of hair behind her ear, a telltale sign of her nervousness that Nicole has learned to recognise over the past thirteen months.

Quite _what_ she has to be nervous about, Nicole has no idea. He’s just a stupid boy, after all. One trying his luck with the beautiful new cheerleader who - 

She swallows.

Those are _not_ thoughts she can afford to entertain.

Some more conversation passes between the two that Nicole doesn’t catch, but she refocuses _just_ in time to see the boy reach out to touch the brunette’s arm. Waverly laughs; Nicole feels her heart pounding so hard in her chest it reverberates in her ears, throbbing painfully as she watches the idiot wave a casual goodbye over his shoulder, his stupid face and _stupid_ smirk clear to her now.

She won’t forget them in a hurry.

Once he is out of sight, Waverly and Chrissy begin to whisper excitedly, loudly enough that Nicole manages to catch snippets from further down the hallway. She hears Chrissy’s disbelieving ‘Champ Hardy!’ and _sees_ the blush deepen in hue on Waverly’s already-pink cheeks.

It’s at that point she decides to make her presence known and trudges towards them, hands shoved into her pockets, expression schooled into one she _hopes_ disguises the bitter words she wants to spew now souring on her tongue. All thoughts of complimenting the brunette have been long forgotten, dissipating the moment that _boy_ sauntered into her limited sphere of knowledge.

Chrissy spots her first, smiles, then waves a quick goodbye to the pair as she jogs away down the hallway, her phone ringing in her hand. Waverly is still grinning when she launches herself at Nicole, throwing her arms around her neck and squeezing tightly.

‘I did it!’ she squeals. ‘The first game is over.’

And in spite of the unease that has settled in the pit of her stomach, Nicole at least _tries_ to look happy for her.

‘You were great,’ she mutters. ‘I told you you would be.’

‘Yeah, but you never _know_ , you know? Not until it’s done.’

Nicole _doesn’t_ know, for she has never participated in anything even remotely similar in her life. So, she just nods her head and wrinkles her nose as she catches a whiff of some particularly strong - and _masculine_ \- odour.

A fourteen-year-old boy wearing _that_ much cologne? She scoffs. Exactly _who_ is he trying to impress? This ‘Champ Hardy’ boy plummets even further in her estimation.

His stupid face and stupid smirk lodge themselves into her mind’s eye and she can’t help voicing her next question.

‘So, who was he?’

Waverly frowns for a moment, tilting her head as she processes the abrupt change in conversation. ‘Champ?’ Nicole grits her teeth and nods. ‘He’s just a boy I know from middle school. He was on the football team then, too. He’s actually really good.’

Whether Waverly knows her lips pull into a subtle smile, Nicole can’t tell. The sight makes her want to punch the wall. Instead, she shoves her hands further into her pockets and pinches the top of her thigh through the thick fabric of her jeans.

‘He’s always been popular,’ Waverly shrugs. ‘Especially with the girls.’

‘Mmhm,’ is all Nicole manages to offer in return.

The look on her face must convey something other than the passive disinterest she strives for, for Waverly’s brow furrows again and she opens her mouth to respond, but is cut off by the sound of irritable shouting from the school entrance.

‘Waves? Where the fuck are you? Gus said she’s leaving without you if you don’t get your butt in gear.’

Waverly sighs and rolls her eyes and gestures for Nicole to follow her to wherever Wynonna is. They meet her halfway to the exit, phone still clutched in her hand, light flashing and high-pitched chimes issuing from it every few seconds. _More messages? Someone’s keen..._

‘I wondered where you’d got to,’ she directs at Nicole, who simply shrugs and offers nothing in response.

She doesn’t trust herself right now, not to reply to Waverly’s thwarted attempt to question her reaction and not to warn Wynonna about the creep who may or may not be after her baby sister.

After all, she reminds herself, it’s really none of her business.

And Waverly would certainly not thank her for either one.

As they leave together, Waverly scolding Wynonna over the cigarette she’s retrieved from behind her ear and is duly lighting up, Nicole can’t help but think that the Hardy boy is going to be a thorn in her side for the foreseeable future…

***

**Purgatory, Present Day**

She _almost_ scoffs in the middle of Moody’s long introduction at that last thought. If only she’d known then, as an ignorant, oblivious fifteen-year-old, just _how much_ of a pain in the arse Hardy would eventually become.

No, that doesn’t do him justice. No words she could conjure ever would.

Not after what he did.

What he forced _her_ to do.

If she concentrates hard enough, she can almost feel the dull ache in her fractured knuckle, the one that took weeks to heal but has never really been the same since. It’s a constant reminder of the biggest mistake she ever made.

And yet, put in the same situation, she would surely do it all over again. Hardy had deserved _that_ much.

Waverly, too.

She just about registers the end of Moody’s speech and sucks in a deep breath, ready to do her ‘civic duty’ and talk about why these spotty teenagers should consider a career in law enforcement.

Truthfully, most _shouldn’t_.

It’s only the young girl’s eager expression in the front row and the thought of a stiff drink at the end of the night that get her through it.

Tomorrow is her day off. Tonight, she’ll drown her increasing sorrow at the bottom of a glass. And, perhaps, in a lovely barmaid’s bed should the urge strike.

_Anything_ to forget.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm still here - just about! Sorry for the long delay (particularly with my other fic, which I will be working on next). Same old, same old: crazy work schedule etc. hence being absent and not responding to comments (for which I apologise - I cherish every one and will go back and reply now I have the time and energy).
> 
> Those who return to read this: thank you, truly. You're the reason I continue each time.

**Purgatory, Present Day**

Waverly sighs once the door closes and she is, once again, left alone in her room at the end of a _very_ long day. Six periods back-to-back with a lunchtime support session with Michael Rameker squeezed in for good measure, followed by _that_ ‘supportive’ parental meeting after school…

It’s not exactly as though it had started all that well, either.

The sight of Nicole’s cold eyes - the ones that had always taken on a caramel colour in the sunshine, that had held immeasurable warmth and kindness when they were younger - still haunts her. She isn’t sure that the shiver that ripples through her body is entirely due to the crisp evening breeze that infiltrates her room through the broken seal around that one window, either.

When she feels the exhaustion starting to seep into her bones, making them ache in spite of the painkillers she had popped earlier to alleviate her pounding head, Waverly decides to call it a night. Trying to force her way through the remaining papers in such a state will only be detrimental in the long run, she reasons.

Thus it is that she finds herself driving through town ten minutes later, intent on returning home and burrowing into her many blankets until sleep finally takes her.

This plan is thwarted, however, by the sudden urge she has for just _one_ drink. Something to take the edge off, to soothe the emotional wounds that have been threatening to tear open at the seams over the past few days.

After all, she never _did_ have that one the other night, when she had walked into _Shorty’s_ only to find the one person she thought was still hundreds of miles away, living a life entirely separate from her own.

What a surprise _that_ had been.

She still isn’t sure it’s a good one.

Pushing the dilemma to the back of her mind, she walks through the door to the bar, hoping the man himself will be working so that she’ll have a friendly face to look forward to and a friendly ear upon which to unburden herself.

Of course, she has no such luck.

Waverly slides onto a stool and narrows her eyes at the pretty, raven-haired barmaid. The one from the other night. The one who had been draping herself over Nicole like a cheap scarf.

Suspicion and dislike threaten to insinuate themselves into her words as she asks for a drink, but she catches them and _just_ about manages to keep her tone neutral.

Apparently, the woman doesn’t recognise her, and she decides that that, at least, is a blessing. The last thing she wants is have her one drink ruined by the awkwardness that would inevitably ensue given her little outburst the other night. It wasn’t how she had intended on returning to _Shorty’s_ for the first time since being back in Purgatory, to say the least.

With no Shorty - nor any other old friend - to talk to, Waverly hunches over her drink, cradling the glass in her cold hands, and instead listens to the familiar sounds of the bar wash over her: the loud clack of pool balls smacking against one another, the raucous laughter of the already-inebriated locals, and the irritating voice of the altogether far too gorgeous barmaid as she flirts with the punters. Quite _what_ Nicole sees in such a hussy, Waverly doesn’t know.

She rolls her eyes at her failed attempt to remain impartial and takes a sip of her whiskey, enough to burn her throat in a way that she has missed dearly.

When Waverly glances back up, she catches sight of her reflection in the pocked, age-stained mirror still propped behind the bar. It’s paler than usual, dark circles nestling under her eyes, speaking of the heavy workload and all-too-little sleep she has managed to cram into her busy schedule. Gone is the fresh-faced teenager that once worked here during the summer she had returned from college to support Gus during her time of need.

The thought of that particular summer squeezes at her heart, her chest tightening with the still-raw grief, one that she doesn’t ever think she will get over. She clutches the glass between white-knuckled fingers and takes a deep breath to steady the sudden onslaught of emotion.

To her misfortune, the pretty barmaid appears to notice.

‘Everything all right there?’ the woman asks, peering at her from across the tiny bar. ‘Whiskey gone sour?’

She grins at her own joke; Waverly, however, does not.

‘I’m fine,’ she mutters, before adding civilly, ‘thanks.’

‘You certainly don’t _look_ fine,’ the woman persists. Waverly grits her teeth against the immediate retort that springs to her lips. ‘I know, I’m being nosy. Old habit, sorry.’ The barmaid offers her a conciliatory smile. ‘You new here? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.’

This time, Waverly can’t stop the snort of laughter. ‘Uh, not exactly,’ she replies. ‘I’ve just...been away for a while. I used to work here, actually. For a time, anyway.’

The woman frowns for a few moments, looking her up and down, appraising her, it seems. Then, quite suddenly, she snaps her fingers and lets out a noise of recognition. ‘ _Oh_ , you must be Waverly.’ Waverly’s own eyebrows shoot up, her irritation forgotten amidst her confusion. ‘Shorty talks about you all the time. So do a lot of the regulars. You’re a popular girl around here, it seems.’

‘Oh, you know - it’s all in the smile and wave,’ Waverly responds, a little half-heartedly as she lifts her hand and demonstrates.

The gesture reminds her of that same summer and she takes an extra large gulp of her drink. Try as she might, she can’t shake the memories, especially sitting in the exact same spot as she had done on that very day…

***

**Purgatory, 3 years ago (Waverly: 19, Nicole: 20)**

She’s numb. Numb to the sights and sounds of the crowded bar. Numb to the condolences of well-intentioned friends and acquaintances. Numb even to her own raw grief.

She feels...nothing.

It doesn’t feel real, somehow. It hasn’t sunk in yet. She doubts it ever will.

Because how could he be gone? How could the man she’s looked up to as a father since she was still stumbling around in diapers have disappeared forever? How can she possibly go on without him by her side? How can the world around her continue on as though nothing has happened, as though it has not just shattered into a million pieces, never to be whole again?

How...

She stares straight ahead. Into the mirror. At her own reflection. Seeing it, but not really registering anything beyond the dark circles and pale cheeks. It’s not her. Not really.

She thinks perhaps she will never be the same person again. Not after this.

She’s still sitting there when a hand touches her shoulder - lightly, just enough to pull her from her stupor so as not to startle her.

It works. She looks around and finds herself staring at the face of someone she has sorely missed - not that she would admit that aloud.

‘Waves…’ Nicole’s voice is little more than a broken whisper, something just for her. ‘I’m so sorry.’

It is as though the past year never happened, as though the hurt and betrayal have faded into obscurity under the burden of her grief. She sinks into Nicole’s embrace as though it’s something she’s been doing every day since they parted on such acrimonious terms.

The truth - that she can hardly admit even to herself - is that she has longed for this so much that it actually hurts. The grief, not only for her uncle’s passing but for a lost friendship that shaped so much of her adolescence and emerging identity, burns anew in her veins and in her eyes. Hot tears seep into Nicole’s shirt but neither one of them says anything; neither one of them moves. Nicole simply allows her to...be. Like she always used to.

It’s everything she needs right now.

After some time, she eases out of the embrace and sits back down on the stool, wiping her eyes with the back of one hand. Nicole joins her at the bar and waits. It’s plain she wants to say something but is finding it difficult to verbalise her thoughts. It’s not been so long that she can’t recognise when her friend is conflicted.

‘Say it,’ she prompts. ‘Whatever it is that’s eating you.’

Nicole holds her gaze for a long moment, seeming to weigh up the decision.

Finally, she breaks. ‘I...I know I’m probably the last person you want to see right now…but I couldn’t not come.’ Nicole seems to understand the question without her even voicing it. ‘Gus called me.’

Of course she did. Wynonna wouldn’t have done it, even if she had really wanted to. She’s too stubbornly loyal to do such a thing without her little sister’s permission.

Nicole reads into her silence, understands only a fraction of what she’s really feeling. ‘If you want me to go…’

‘No. Stay, please.’ She swallows the fresh wave of tears that threaten. ‘You...you deserve to be here, too. He would want that.’

And it’s true: Curtis would never have allowed an old grudge to keep away someone he considered part of the family. He would have buried the hatchet with a joke and a sneaky drink and that would have been that.

It’s too bad, really, that she didn’t take after Curtis in that way.

Yet, for this one day, perhaps she can.

Nicole nods and squints at the drink that is suddenly pushed in front of her. They both look up to find Gus standing behind the bar, a grim smile on her lined face.

‘Glad you could make it,’ she says, pouring herself a generous helping of whiskey. ‘It wouldn’t be the same without ya.’

Nicole nods again and stares at the contents of her own glass. Though Curtis had sometimes allowed them the odd drink in celebration, Gus was a stickler for the rules.

Well, most of them. Most of the time.

‘It’s watered down,’ Gus admits. ‘Can barely taste the whiskey.’

It’s symbolic, really. A gesture. They both accept it without a word.

Satisfied, Gus walks away to speak to other well-wishers, leaving them alone once more.

For all of thirty seconds, that is.

In Gus’ wake, Wynonna appears, grabbing the entire whiskey bottle and taking a gulp large enough to make anyone else choke. As usual, she handles it like a pro. _It’s in the genes,_ she always said. Her sister often wonders…

‘So, you came,’ Wynonna says, voice neutral, guarded, her eyes the only indicator of the turmoil inside.

Nicole sees it, too. Because of course she does.

‘Couldn’t say no to Gus,’ she replies.

‘Nobody can,’ Wynonna agrees.

For a time, they all sit there, talking as they always had done. Well, almost. Their words are chosen more carefully, their laughter isn’t quite as natural - but they’re talking. It's something. It's progress. It’s been too long, she feels. Far too long. And yet…

Maybe it’s not just her that will never be the same again.

***

**Purgatory, Present Day**

She splutters a little and earns a smirk from the barmaid that makes her left eye twitch ever so slightly.

‘Steady there. That stuff’s heavy going,’ the woman says.

‘Look - ’ Waverly pauses, her rant cut off by the realisation that she doesn’t know the woman’s name.

‘Rosita,’ the barmaid supplies.

‘Rosita,’ Waverly parrots, blinking as she tries to remember what she wanted to vent about. ‘Look, I appreciate that you’re just doing your job and all, but…’ She sighs and downs the rest of her drink, this time without making a fool of herself. ‘I’m just - I’m _really_ not in the mood. I don’t mean to sound like a bitch or - ’

Rosita holds up her hand to stop her, the ever-present smile still in place. Waverly does as instructed and waits; she is reminded of the time she chewed out one of her students, the boy’s expression suitably chastised after she had put him in his place. She imagines he had felt much the same way as she does now.

‘Waverly - you don’t mind me calling you that, right?’ Waverly shakes her head. ‘I get it, okay? You’ve had a bad day and want to be left alone. That’s all you had to say.’

Though her words sting somewhat, they aren’t intended to offend. Waverly can see that in the one side of Rosita’s mouth that pulls up into a half-smile, offering something...solidarity, perhaps. Or maybe simply understanding.

‘You know what I think you _really_ need?’ Rosita continues, reaching to the side and grabbing the whiskey bottle. ‘Another drink.’

It’s on the tip of Waverly’s tongue to refuse; she has work tomorrow, after all, and the last thing she needs is a pounding headache and a wretched hangover. Not in her first proper semester as a full-time teacher.

But then she remembers just how much of a shitshow her life has been recently and she nods instead. She waits, listening to the hum of idle chatter, the grumblings from the pool table, the clink of ice against glass; her fingers caress the chipped, scratched wood of the bar, feeling the years-old sticky residue that is forever ingrained in its grooves, that never quite disappears no matter how hard it is scrubbed. It is oddly comforting, knowing that some things will never change.

Rosita pushes the drink in front of her without a word.

The liquid just about burns her tongue when the barmaid looks up and grins widely at another punter. ‘Evening, Red. The usual?’

The next few drops spill down Waverly’s top and she hastily brushes them away, determined not to turn around. She can feel her cheeks warming up and she’s not sure whether it’s the drink finally taking hold or...something else. Something altogether less pleasant. The eager look on the barmaid’s face needles her, stoking her irritation once again.

She feels someone slide onto the stool next to her, feels the warmth of their arm as it rests beside hers on the bar. Still she doesn’t look. Instead, she takes another sip, this time carefully so as not to spill any more drops - or secrets.

‘Thanks, Rosita,’ comes the all-too-familiar voice, the one that always - _always_ \- manages to stir up myriad emotions within her, some she wishes she was incapable of feeling.

‘You got it.’

The silence persists between them, neither one acknowledging the other’s presence, neither one risking so much as a glance.

Neither one wanting to crack first.

So, of course, it’s Rosita that does it for them.

‘You two know each other?’ she ventures, looking between the both of them. Waverly’s expression betrays her thoughts, as it often does: _what gave her that impression?_ ‘Only two people with history avoid each other this desperately.’ She chuckles, then rolls her eyes as she looks at Nicole; something in her expression must express disapproval. ‘What? Nosy, remember?’

Nicole mutters something under her breath that makes Rosita shrug and wander off to serve another customer instead. Waverly wants to ask what it was; she’s too stubborn, as usual, to give into such an impulse. She swallows it along with some whiskey.

And as always was the case whenever they’d had a fight as kids, Nicole is the one to break the ice.

‘So, how did your _meeting_ go?’ she asks, voice steady - as though she is fighting against some emotion that she doesn’t want Waverly to hear.

Of course, Waverly tries hard to decipher it anyway: the neutrality of the tone, except for that one word. _Meeting._ There’s something in that...

‘Fine. Boring, really, but it was necessary.’

‘Mhm, sure. I get it.’

Waverly glances up in time to see Nicole’s fingers clench into a fist - just briefly, long enough to reveal the tension she is bottling up inside. When it comes to her childhood best friend, she doesn’t miss a thing.

Usually.

Clearly, she doesn’t always understand _everything_ where Nicole is concerned. Certainly not nowadays, anyway. Sometimes she wonders if she will ever understand her friend again.

_Huh, friend._ It’s been a long time since she had used that word for Nicole, since she had considered her such. Was it still true? Did she even want it to be?

The voice in her head - the one that always surfaced whenever Nicole was the subject of her tumultuous thoughts - sneers. _Of course you do. That’s why you’re so angry._

She rolls her eyes and just about manages to mumble her response into her glass rather than aloud so that Nicole doesn’t hear.

‘What was that?’

Or so she thought.

She coughs and grips her glass a little harder. ‘Oh, nothing. Just...remembered something I didn’t do earlier.’

‘Uh huh.’

Once again, she’s dismissed. Her skin prickles with indignation. What exactly has she done to deserve _this_ treatment? They had been speaking fine this morning, up until Moody had interrupted. Was something said that upset Nicole? Waverly racks her brain, trying to recall the finer details of the conversation, but the long, tiring day since has driven them from her mind.

Perhaps Nicole has just had a shitty day at work? _Well, join the club…_

‘So, this _meeting_ ,’ Nicole begins suddenly, emphasising the word yet again, ‘was it with the boy’s parents? The one who ran into you this morning?’

Again, Nicole’s voice is unnaturally devoid of emotion. That usually only meant one thing: she was pissed off beyond all reckoning.

Waverly chooses her words carefully. ‘No, his parents aren’t around. I spoke to his guardian.’

‘His cousin.’

Waverly frowns. ‘Er, yeah. How did...you know…’

The truth sinks in all at once.

‘Champ Hardy,’ Nicole replies, ignoring the unfinished question.

For the first time since Nicole had slipped onto the stool next to her, Waverly turns to stare at her old friend. Nicole, though, looks resolutely ahead, into the same mirror Waverly has reflected upon so many times over the years.

‘You looked him up in the police database.’

This time, it isn’t a question. Even to her own ears, it’s an accusation, and a bitter one at that.

Nicole doesn’t deny it.

‘You abused your position to...what? Continue beating a dead horse?’

She watches as Nicole picks up her glass and takes a measured sip, deliberately avoiding her pointed gaze.

‘I don’t believe you,’ Waverly whispers sharply. ‘Are you seriously still hung up over the past so much that you’d - ’

‘You can do better,’ Nicole spits. ‘You always could.’

Waverly grits her teeth, biting back the automatic retort she longs to spew - the one that always, _always_ threatened whenever this topic inevitably arose between them. She finally understands what’s going on.

‘You think the meeting was a _date_? With _Champ_? Are you out of your mind?’

‘I’m not the one meeting up with that douchebag again after - ’

‘I didn’t _meet up_ with him. I met him as his cousin’s _teacher_ to let him know how he’s been doing. You know, my _job_. The one I take seriously and perform with professional care, unlike _some_.’

The hit lands, right where Waverly intended. Nicole has always prided herself on her principles, on undertaking any job with the utmost attention to duty. To be accused of neglecting her obligations - it wasn’t something she took lightly.

Yet, instead of the usual tit-for-tat to which Waverly had become uncomfortably accustomed over the years, Nicole drains her glass and stands up without a word. Waverly watches as she tucks the stool back into place and then turns to walk out of the bar. Part of her feels relieved: it means they don’t have to rehash old history all over again, especially in front of a bar full of bored locals eager for juicy gossip. _And Rosita._ But the other part, the one that controls that _stupid_ voice in her head, feels only frustration and anger and bitter, bitter resentment.

It’s these emotions that fuel her march towards the double doors and into the biting cold beyond.

She catches up to Nicole just as she’s opening the door to her police cruiser.

‘Nicole Haught, you do _not_ just get to walk away from me,’ she barks, hands balled into fists by her side.

She _feels_ the eyeroll Nicole gives in response, hears the muted sigh she breathes out before the breeze steals it. The redhead seems to steel herself for the fight before slowly turning around.

‘You really want to have this argument again? Here? Now?’

Waverly scoffs, the sound far too loud in the otherwise silent street. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t recall being the one who started it.’ Yes, it’s petulant, childish even, but she doesn’t care. ‘I wasn’t the one who _spied_ on you to dig up some petty grudge from when we were kids. Unlike you, I’ve moved on.’

‘Oh, really? Is that why you’re still hanging around that shit stain of a human being?’

This time it’s a growl that forces itself past Waverly’s lips. She even throws up her hands reflexively before wrapping them around her arms and gripping - hard.

‘I _told_ you, I’m not - ’ She sucks in a deep breath, steadying herself rather than betray just how furious she is. ‘You know what? I don’t owe you an explanation. I don’t owe you _anything_. Not anymore.’

‘I never said you did.’ Nicole hesitates; Waverly can see whatever dilemma she is struggling with playing out across her face. Eventually she speaks again, voice lower, softer, its edge filed down just enough to assuage Waverly’s own ire. ‘I just - I don’t want to see you get hurt again. I still care about you.’

And despite the years and the heated spats and the absolute betrayal that infects every interaction between them, those words still have the power to hurt and heal, to bring her absolute joy and utter devastation.

After all this time, she still doesn’t know how to respond.

The sound of loud chatter filters through the door to _Shorty’s_ as it swings open, one drunken local staggering out and down the street towards them. They watch as he stumbles past, raising his hand as he mumbles an inebriated ‘Nigh’, off’cer’. Nicole touches the tip of her hat in response, her narrowed eyes following his shaky progress all the way to the corner where he rounds out of sight.

Alone again, they glance at one another, but without the fury lacing her every word, Waverly finds she cannot hold the gaze for long. The moment - the one that had hovered between them, that had offered an opening to something more than tired arguments - has gone, it, too, snatched by the wind that chills her to the bone. She shivers and Nicole notices; she always does.

‘Look, it’s late and it’s cold. You should...go home.’

Waverly _wants_ to refuse, to force this conversation to its conclusion, to see what lay beyond the possible olive branch Nicole’s words had conjured. But Nicole is right: now is not the time nor the place.

So, she whispers a subdued, almost awkward goodbye and watches as her old friend slides into the car and slips away into the night, the cold and the alcohol, the exhaustion and the confusion mingling and making her head spin.

Yet she will not let it go. She will not pass up the opportunity to pick up the thread from that morning and follow it to the centre of the maze.

She _will_ learn the truth, one way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, more angst, of course, but also...some hope. We shall see where it leads. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a turn of events that's surprised even me, I've also managed to finish writing this chapter (started weeks ago but I got stuck on a particular bit). So...hello again, faithful readers!
> 
> I at least know the gist of what I want to write for the next chapter, so let's hope 2 months don't fly by before I get it up. Life, eh...? *grumbles*

**Purgatory, Present Day**

She awakes the next morning with another pounding headache that she is sure has absolutely nothing to do with the one drink she had last night and everything to do with the confused tangle of emotions that has once again been stirred up with the return of Waverly Earp. Deciding that today is the day she breaks her recent slovenly habit of lounging in bed on her days off until either her stomach or bladder force her to get up, she rolls out and pads into the bathroom to shower.

The water is pleasantly scalding as she steps under it; she imagines it burning away the regret and disappointment that has built up over the years, a thick, grimy film covering what could have been the best decade of her life.

There’s not enough water in the world to wash it all away.

She stays there for far too long, wasting both time and money, but she doesn’t care. In that enclosed space, she can imagine that her life had taken a different direction, that she had made a different choice all those years ago and set herself on a different path.

The path less travelled.

_The Road Not Taken_. Waverly had read her that poem one evening after school as they had diligently completed their homework. It hadn’t meant much to her then, a seventeen-year-old with no room in her head for fanciful metaphorical concepts, let alone ones that imagined a life well-lived. Now, she gets it. Now, she understands the impact of her choices. And what a _difference_ , indeed.

Sighing, she turns the water off and steps into the chill outside of the steamy glass box. For once, she has very little on her schedule today. She decides that it might be a good time to work on her new project and throws on a pair of ratty old jeans and a tank top smeared with multi-coloured paint stains; they’re perfect for the dirty job she has planned.

After brewing her customary black morning coffee, she makes her way to her garage and pulls off the sheet haphazardly thrown over the wreck of a car underneath.

She wishes she could say it was the same one she’d had at sixteen, but it’s not; it’s only a replica, the closest thing she could find to the real thing. Spending weeks fixing up that old banger had been the best summer of her life, for various reasons. She knows it’s pointless, trying to recapture that feeling, that time, and yet…

Well, it’s not like she has anything else going on in her life right now.

Thus, she turns on her music and begins.

Holding the tools in her hands, she gets to work. Gutting the engine is the first step, figuring out what’s salvageable and what belongs on the trash heap. It’s hazy, but her recollection about each part and its function, how it all fits together, slowly sharpens and cuts through the fog in her memory. Some things she still has to search on the internet, but not so many that she feels she’s lost her touch entirely.

It’s freeing, she thinks, focusing on her hands and the job in front of her, having to concentrate so she doesn’t mess up, forcing her to push aside any other thoughts that might be jostling for her attention. The smell of engine oil and grease permeates the tiny garage, and it is this that most reminds her of _that_ summer. It was during those long, stifling months that she finally acknowledged to herself what she had been trying to deny for over a year. What she had _sworn_ to herself over and over again wasn’t true, _couldn’t_ be true.

That she was in love with her best friend.

It had been that summer that had shaped the last eight years of her life, that had coloured and tainted every romantic interaction she ever had with another woman. Admittedly, there weren’t many. Not when it was so unfair to others, this lingering infatuation, this _love_ that wouldn’t - _couldn’t_ \- be exorcised. Even after eight long years…

***

It’s well into the evening when she stops - her back crying out with the pain of stooping over the car all day, eyes dry and burning, and her top and face smeared with sticky grease - and admires her handiwork. An unfamiliar emotion blooms in her chest and diffuses through her body, coaxing a rare smile from her lips.

It’s pride.

Pride in her work, in her _self_.

It’s been too long since she's felt anything like it.

There’s still a long way to go, of course, but it’s a start. It’s _something_.

She _just_ about catches the sound of a tentative knock over her music and she frowns. Nobody ever knocks at her door. Nobody ever visits, not without her knowing about it first.

Hesitating, she wipes her hands over her top and decides that it’s probably safe to ignore when it happens again. This time, it’s louder, more insistent.

With an irritated sigh (for she really is in no fit state to entertain visitors), she trudges back into the main house and down the hallway towards the front door. She thinks she can hear someone muttering to themselves on the other side as she grips the handle and pulls.

The amusement she had felt bubbling up dies as she looks at the one person she had thought would never voluntarily return to her childhood home.

***

**Nicole’s House, eight years ago (Waverly: 15, Nicole: 16)**

It’s been five weeks, countless hours, and an inordinate number of energy drinks, but she’s almost there. The car is _almost_ ready.

Nicole steps back, taking in her pride and joy, admiring the beauty before her as it gleams in the heat of the afternoon sun. Wiping the sweat that has gathered on her forehead, clinging stubbornly to her hairline, she glances at her phone. And frowns. _She should be here by now._ Very deliberately - and with absolutely no choice in the matter if she wanted to live to see the beginning of her junior year of school - Nicole has left the final stages until Waverly arrives. She’d been there every free day she’d had, perching on the workbench and watching Nicole at work, offering cheerful words of encouragement whenever something went wrong and various suggestions for names with which to christen the vehicle.

Nicole had steadfastly vetoed her first offering of ‘Leo’ (‘ _What? It’s a cool name. And no, it’s_ not _because I have a crush on Leonardo DiCaprio.’_ ) as well as ‘Bertha’ ( _‘People just don’t like the name because it has a bad rep. It’s not_ Bertha’s _fault she was locked in a tower by her douchebag husband.’_ ). Until yesterday, they had failed to agree on a single one.

That is, until Waverly absent-mindedly began to regale her with the tale of the latest classic musical she had watched based on a real-life woman who had liked to dress up in more masculine clothes and help the sick and needy. Nicole had caught her eye then, turning the name over in her mind, imagining the strong-willed, fiercely independent woman it belonged to, and they’d shared a _look_ and a _smile_. The ‘Calamity’ part of her name may turn out to jinx them the moment they took the car out on the road for the first time, but that was a risk they were willing to take.

Checking her phone again, Nicole’s frown deepens. It’s really not like her best friend to not even text that she’s running late. Well, it’s not like her to be late at all - ‘late’ to Waverly Earp means arriving dead on time. So she isn’t surprised to find that now-familiar weight settling in her chest, the tiny kernel of anxiety that will only sprout and grow the longer the unusual silence persists.

She’s felt it more than once over the past few months, always because of Waverly.

Her fingers hover over the phone, on the verge of calling Waverly herself to find out just what the hell is wrong, when the sound of tyres squealing outside drags her attention away from the device. That burgeoning seedling shrivels and dies, leaving her with a blissful feeling of weightlessness instead. Somewhere in the back of her mind a niggling voice points out that it’s a rather extreme reaction to seeing the girl she has spent a large portion of her time with almost every day for the past two years, but she pushes it aside. Painful, honest introspection has never exactly been her forte, and, besides, there’s something far more important to focus on now.

‘Sorry!’ Waverly huffs as she comes to a breathless stop in front of Nicole. ‘Wynonna hid my keys and wouldn’t tell me where they were until I told her what we were doing today.’

With a roll of her eyes, Nicole glances at her phone once more. If she knows anything about Wynonna Earp, it’s that she will take any opportunity to - 

_Wynonna, 12:13pm: Yo, nerd, thanks 4 including me in ur grand opening. Now I know how much u rly love me. I’ll forgive u if u bring me a pack of rollies on Monday._

\- rib her over her friendship with her baby sister. Yep. So on brand. So Wynonna. She almost feels guilty before remembering that Wynonna really wouldn’t be all that interested, anyway. Not unless a road trip was involved and she was in control of the tunes, that is.

When she looks back up it’s to find Waverly watching her with an unfamiliar, inscrutable expression.

‘Wynonna,’ she explains, apparently incorrectly interpreting the look as one of inquiry, for Waverly shakes her head, but says nothing. ‘What? Have I got something on my face?’

She reaches up to scrub her hand across her face again, eliciting a light giggle from Waverly. The warmth that blooms in her chest at the sound is unexpected, but not entirely foreign; it’s one she’s experienced a number of times in the past couple of months (when she’s not an anxious mess), always in the presence of her best friend, a fact of which she feigns ignorance.

‘No, silly,’ Waverly says, still grinning as she closes the distance between them, reaches into her bag, and pulls out a tissue; licking the end of it, she swipes it across Nicole’s cheek - the one that is now burning with the all-consuming heat of a thousand suns and is equally as red, she’s sure. ‘Hmm, I don’t think it’s coming off like that. It’s too stubborn.’

Nicole forces herself to swallow. And breathe. Always to breathe, no matter how impossible it might seem in that moment.

‘O-oh,’ she stutters, her cheek still tingling with the ghost of Waverly’s touch. ‘I, er...I should probably change before...yeah…’

Eyes wide, she makes to turn away, to head through the door and up to her own bedroom, when a slender hand suddenly clasps her shirt. When she throws a confused look over her shoulder, she’s met with an equally bewildered one on Waverly’s face.

‘Um, you don’t...have to change,’ Waverly murmurs, and her eyes begin a slow journey up from the oil stains ingrained into her tank top to her grease-smeared face. As though realising what’s happening, she quickly drops her hand back to her side and stares at the car instead. ‘I mean, we’re already running late and we don’t have all that much time as it is, so maybe it’ll just be better if we...leave now…’

Nicole has known Waverly Earp long enough to recognise her signature nervous rambling for what it is. Something has embarrassed her. Nicole hadn’t exactly been _subtle_ with her reaction to Waverly’s - albeit light, brief - touch. She has tried so hard to conceal any potential _more-than-friends_ feelings she has been endeavouring to ignore herself, but perhaps…

Perhaps she’s just not adept enough to do so.

She could kick herself for the sudden change it has effected in Waverly, the obvious awkwardness that feels altogether alien in her best friend, so rarely is it seen.

She needs some space, some time to quash these inappropriate thoughts that now abound in the secret recesses of her mind.

‘I mean, I would, but do you know how long I had to save up for those seats?’ Nicole jokes, trying to lighten the mood. ‘If I get even a speck of this stuff on it, I might just cry.’

To her immense relief, Waverly smiles at that. And nods, an implicit agreement, permission even, for Nicole really would risk spoiling her precious masterpiece if Waverly insisted she remain in these grimy clothes, after all.

The words she hurls at herself in the safety of her internal monologue would make even Wynonna blush.

‘I’ll be quick,’ she promises, and darts off through the doorway, taking the stairs two at a time in her desperation not to keep Waverly waiting any longer.

***

When Nicole returns ten minutes later, her face _mostly_ free of the tenacious grease stains and sporting a fresh pair of jean shorts and white t-shirt, she finds Waverly perched on the same workbench she’s claimed for the past five weeks. Her demeanour is notably more relaxed as she scrutinises the paintwork on the car, and Nicole breathes a heavy sigh of relief before approaching her.

‘Ready?’ she asks, holding up the keys and jangling them with a little _too_ much enthusiasm.

Yet, because it’s Waverly, she returns the excited energy twofold. ‘Yes! I can’t wait to hear it for the first time.’

‘After you, m’lady,’ Nicole says, her voice low as she butchers the attempt at a posh British accent.

She sinks into an exaggerated bow, hand sweeping out in front of her, offering the precious key to Waverly. Again, that giggle. Again, the throb in her chest. This time, she does a better job at smothering it. Waverly moves slowly, brushing her fingers against the metal of the car door almost reverently, as though fearing a firmer touch will somehow damage it.

Nicole swallows again.

The tension that envelops them is almost palpable as Waverly drops into the driver’s seat and peers at her through the sparkling windscreen. Nicole nods. And waits.

And _waits_ as Waverly turns the key in the ignition.

The car splutters to life and her heart leaps to her throat. Then it dies, and with it every daring dream about road trips with Waverly she’d had.

Brow furrowed, Waverly tries again, holding it longer this time. The car growls its protests, and then - 

‘It worked!’ Nicole cries, bounding over to the driver’s door.

Waverly leaps out of the car and throws her arms around Nicole, bouncing on her tiptoes as she squeals, ‘We did it!’

So great is her joy that the gesture barely affects her this time. Gazing fondly at the marvel in front of them, Nicole thinks she’s really never been prouder of anything in her life.

***

It’s later that same afternoon when Nicole realises just how lucky she truly is.

The sun is dipping below the horizon, its waning rays staining the tips of the mountains a burnt orange with its lingering touch. It no longer scorches the earth, instead wrapping the world around them in a warmth that feels like a caress on their cooling skin. Waverly lies next to her on the bonnet of the car, eyes closed against the still-bright sun, hair flecked with gold as it catches the light. She could be asleep except for the lazy smile that tugs at her lips, the gentle movement of her right foot as she hums a song that Nicole doesn’t know.

There and then she decides that this, right here, is her favourite moment of the entire summer. Perhaps even of her entire life, if she’s honest with herself. It’s so simple, so uneventful, and yet it means the world to her in that minute. In that minute, all her hopes and dreams seem achievable, within reach almost, in spite of the odds that she knows are stacked against her. In that minute, she can almost believe the future she dares to wish for could come true…

‘What are you thinking about?’ she asks, voice barely a whisper in the still evening, her eyes trained on the cloudless sky above.

Waverly is silent for a long time and Nicole begins to wonder if she really has fallen asleep, after all.

Then, ever so softly, she replies, ‘Not a darn thing.’

Nicole smiles, for she recognises the response for what it is: an expression of utter contentment. Something rare that needs to be cherished and left undisturbed for as long as possible.

She cannot, of course, say the same. For through her mind swirl a thousand different thoughts and fears, hopes and doubts. Apparently sensing this - or something close to this, at least - Waverly reaches over and places her hand over Nicole’s as it rests on her stomach, her thumb stroking the reddened, grazed knuckles. Such a simple gesture, and yet the promise it holds is as clear as the spotless sky above: there will be many more moments like this to come. So many more memories to treasure, to weave into the ever-expanding tapestry of their life together.

More than anything else, she cannot wait to see it all unfold.

***

**Purgatory, Present Day**

‘Waverly?’ she questions, rather stupidly given it is quite clear that, yes, it is in fact the youngest Earp who is currently standing in front of her, hands clasped together, chewing on her bottom lip. ‘What...are you doing here?’

It could come across as an insult, but the expression on her face is one of obvious confusion. The most surprising part about it all is that that _same_ confusion is mirrored on Waverly’s features, too.

Which, clearly, makes very little sense.

Waverly takes a moment to breathe out a small sigh before she speaks. ‘I…’ Or at least she _tries_ to speak. The words appear to catch in her throat and she shakes her head. ‘I...don’t know.’ Waverly’s hands snake up her own arms, clutching them, wrapping herself in a defensive posture that she knows all too well, even after all this time. ‘It was stupid. _Stupid_. I’ll just...go.’

Waverly turns to leave, her embarrassment propelling her off the first step, but a hand shoots out to grip her arm.

It surprises them both.

But it works. Waverly twists back around to peer up into her eyes, a question there that she can’t - _won’t_ \- answer, even if she could discern what, exactly, Waverly wanted.

‘Look, you’ve come all the way here,’ she says, ignoring the fact that, really, it isn’t all that far in a vehicle. ‘Why don’t you just...come in for a drink or...something.’

She almost rolls her eyes. This awkwardness that has persisted between them for years makes everything that used to be second-nature now seem so difficult. She has to second-guess everything she says, everything she does, every look, every thought. For she never was very good at hiding those. She thinks - hopes - that she’s got better at it over the years. God knows she’s had the practice.

Waverly’s hesitation is clear; it rolls off her in waves, making her clench her hands into small fists before relaxing them again. Yet she nods and slips past Nicole into the darkened hallway beyond.

It’s only when the door closes behind them that Nicole realises she has absolutely no idea what to say, what to _do_. There used to be a time when this was practically Waverly’s second home; truth be told, she spent more time here than her own house over that summer years ago.

Now, it’s as though a stranger has wandered in. Waverly tucks into herself, avoiding touching anything as she hovers by the stairs, waiting for Nicole’s direction. The muffled sound of a song drifts out of the garage through the door she had left ajar and she gestures vaguely in its direction.

‘I just need to finish up in there,’ she clarifies. ‘Just...give me a minute. Make yourself at home.’

She winces at that last part, so automatic and yet so very far from appropriate in their current situation. As if Waverly would ever feel _at home_ in her presence again.

The feeling, she acknowledges briefly, is sadly mutual.

That thought pinching at her heart and her eyes, she scurries off to the garage to close the bonnet and throw the sheet back over her work-in-progress, the regret that Waverly’s appearance has conjured mingling awfully with the pride that still cocoons her in this room. She is lit from above by the lone lightbulb in the room; it throws into stark relief the grease stains that pepper her face and top, that streak up her arms. Wiping her hands down her top again and vowing to change into something less gross, she turns around and is almost startled to see Waverly standing in the doorway, watching her, fierce eyes taking in her dishevelled appearance. The expression on her face almost steals her breath, for it is that same unfamiliar, inscrutable one that had flitted across her features all those years ago, in this very room.

Yet she is older now, more experienced in the ways of desire.

She recognises that look, for it is the same one that she fights so hard to conceal herself whenever she sees Waverly. The same one she’s been fighting against for years.

Here, in this room, she has no idea what to do with it.

So she does the only thing she can think of: she graciously ignores it and allows Waverly the time and space she needs to recover.

When hazel eyes return to her own, she holds her gaze for a long moment before Waverly’s falls to the sheet that, clearly, does nothing to disguise what’s beneath.

‘Is that…’ she begins, taking a step further into the room. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

She shakes her head. ‘No. I wish.’ An unexpected, huffed laugh, one that takes her - and Waverly - by surprise. ‘It’s the closest I could get to it. A slightly newer model.’

‘Oh.’ If she _really_ digs into that single syllable, she could almost swear it sounds like...disappointment. ‘I didn’t know you were doing this again.’

As if she _could_ , she thinks, with how little they’ve communicated since Waverly’s unexpected return. Yet it’s still more than the past eighteen months; there’s something to be said for that.

‘It’s a recent hobby,’ she shrugs. ‘You know, something to fill the time.’

The empty, revealing truth of that admission _should_ be embarrassing, but she no longer has the energy to care.

‘Can I…?’ Waverly ventures, the hand that reaches towards the sheet completing the unfinished question.

It’s almost a shock how quickly, how easily she agrees. She watches as Waverly tugs at the fabric, pulling it away and dropping it gently to the ground.

A nauseating wave of déjà vu crashes over her as slender fingers brush the cool metal of the bonnet, a soft caress that she can almost feel on her own skin. Unbidden, goosebumps erupt across her arms, a shudder skittering down her spine that she is beyond thankful goes unseen by the woman who is - has always been - responsible for it.

She knows without asking that Waverly is recalling that same summer, the hours spent together, laughing and teasing and making promises they were destined never to keep. Even before the sharp, shaky intake of breath, the rapid blinking to ward away the tears, she knows.

To think back on the endless possibilities that summer held, the hopes it had harboured in its warm embrace...it’s painful for them both.

‘I’d...like to see it when it’s done,’ Waverly murmurs, shooting the briefest of glances at her before peering through the windscreen at the interior. ‘If that’s okay, of course…’

To say the request surprises her would be an understatement. But it’s one that she cannot refuse. She’s _never_ been able to refuse Waverly Earp anything.

At least some things never change, she thinks.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing for 2.5 months and now two updates in a week? Apparently this story is just like a bus.
> 
> Clearly inspiration has struck this week. I'm enjoying it whilst it lasts...

Waverly began the night settled as far away from Nicole as possible along her three-seater couch. In spite of all the time she had spent here when they’d been kids, it feels like a foreign place now. The cushions aren’t quite right, the ornaments are different, and Nicole…

Well, that had been broken a long time ago.

Yet here she sits, glass of wine in hand (okay, _third_ glass), and somehow the gap between them has been shrinking so imperceptibly that she’s almost surprised to find Nicole’s hand within touching distance.

Or rather, she _would_ be surprised if her mind weren’t quite so fuddled with the liberal amount of alcohol with which she has been steadily supplied. If she didn’t know better, she’d suspect Nicole was using it to ease the tension that had been thickening between them since her arrival. A social lubricant, one might say.

That last thought makes her giggle.

It catches Nicole’s attention and she looks up from the fireplace, at which she has been staring for the past minute or so since the latest lapse in conversation.

‘What’s funny?’ she asks, tone curious, not accusatory as it has been so many times, as though Waverly’s laugh is something she’s not used to hearing.

And, to be fair, she’s not. Not anymore.

‘Just...a silly joke in my head,’ Waverly replies, waving her hand a little too vigorously; the glass in her other hand trembles, sloshing some of the wine onto her top. ‘Oops.’

She catches Nicole’s eye and giggles again. It’s easier to do tonight. It’s easier to just _not think_ about everything that’s been said (and everything that’s been left _un_ said) between them when she can hardly focus on one topic for longer than a few minutes. Perhaps this is just how it has to be now. Perhaps this is the only way they will manage to exist for one another without everything else getting in the way.

It never used to be, though. Things were always so easy for them. They’d met one day and that was it. They fit together so easily, it was as though they had found the missing puzzle piece in their lives. The one piece that completed the whole.

If she was more sober, she’d roll her eyes _so hard_ at the clichéd sappiness.

But it doesn’t mean it’s not true.

Nicole had stumbled into their lives (quite literally, from the way Wynonna always told the story) and slotted in as though she’d always been there. As though she always _would_ be there.

This time, the soft sigh escapes her before she can suppress her reaction to her own maudlin thoughts.

Once again, Nicole looks up.

‘What are you thinking about?’ she murmurs, words thick with the pleasant warmth of the wine.

Waverly’s heart jolts in her chest, and for a moment she can’t figure out why. She doesn’t know why Nicole’s words have ripped such a visceral, reflexive response from her.

That is, until she focuses all her attention on the memory that had slid into sharp relief earlier in the evening, when she had been looking at the car Nicole was doing up. _That_ summer. When she’d felt...well, she hadn’t known what to call it then. Eight years later, she still tries not to dwell on it, though she knows without a shadow of a doubt what had happened to her then.

It had been that same day, that same afternoon, lying on the bonnet of Nicole’s pride and joy - _Calamity Jane_ \- that Nicole had asked her that same question. So innocent. So full of hope. And her answer - _Not a darn thing_ \- so swollen with her own blissful contentment. In that moment, she’d wanted nothing more than to stay there, sun sinking lower in the sky with each passing minute, bathed in the warmth of a sweet summer’s evening. Her best friend by her side as she’d been for the past three years.

All good things come to an end, though.

And now…

What should her answer be _now_?

‘Nothing much,’ she mutters. But it’s too close to what she’d said on that day, too similar and yet so very, very different. Because it could never be _the same_ again. ‘Just...the past.’

Nicole nods, and Waverly knows that she’s been thinking exactly the same all evening. But over which memories has _she_ been reminiscing? It used to be they were so in sync, they could finish each other’s thoughts - just like an old married couple, Wynonna used to say (though with less flattering words). Of course, it was a joke, one of her many methods of mocking them. Yet it was also true. They had been _so_ close.

That connection had been severed long ago, broken beyond repair along with the best friendship she’d ever had.

She misses it every day.

‘You know,’ Nicole begins, eyes fixed on the fireplace again. Or, more accurately, the mantel above it where some photos sit, nestled in wooden frames. ‘I can’t remember the last time we actually shared a drink together.’

Waverly snorts, the sound making Nicole flinch and turn to frown at her. ‘I know this wine is strong, but you can’t have forgotten last night already.’

For she certainly hasn’t. The bitterness in Nicole’s tone as she had spat out Champ’s name, the way she’d looked at Waverly when she’d admitted she still cared about her…

No, she hasn’t forgotten.

‘I would hardly call that a shared drink,’ Nicole points out. ‘You didn’t even finish yours.’

‘Well, I _would_ have if _somebody_ hadn’t stormed out of the bar.’

‘You didn’t have to come after me.’

It’s almost defensive. Almost accusatory. The reactionary tone Nicole has relied upon for the past six years.

‘I know.’ A pause. A beat in which Waverly almost thinks about what she’s going to say. Almost. ‘But I wanted to.’

This time when the veil of silence descends over them, it is with Nicole gazing at her so intently that she feels the full force of the 17% alcohol content rush to warm her cheeks.

She wants to look away.

She doesn’t.

She wants to know what Nicole is thinking, right then, in this moment.

She isn’t able to. Not anymore.

The seconds crawl past, counted meticulously by the old clock hanging above that same fireplace, the only sound she can hear other than her own breathing.

Within that almost-awkward void, she suddenly remembers the answer to Nicole’s non-question. ‘It was the celebration party,’ she says, and Nicole blinks. The intensity is gone. ‘The last time we drank together. Although...I’m not really sure that counts, either…’

Too late she remembers the devastating fallout from that night.

***

**Stephanie Jones’ House, six years ago (Waverly: 17, Nicole: 18)**

Waverly is _furious_. She can’t remember the last time she has literally trembled with anger - if she _ever_ has - but here she is, stalking down the crowded, sweaty hallway of Stephanie Jones’ house with only one thing on her mind: drink and drink and _drink_ until she can’t remember _anything_.

Well, that _was_ her plan until she’d marched straight into Chrissy, who took all of three seconds to scan her face and recognise the warning signs of the impending baleful outburst.

‘Uh oh,’ Chrissy says, the words immediately subsumed by the thumping bass that reverberates in her ears. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing,’ Waverly snaps, averting her eyes away from the scrutiny of her oldest friend, for she knows she’s never been good at concealing her emotions. Chrissy’s raised eyebrows are all it takes for her to deflate guiltily. ‘Sorry. Just...I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Okay,’ Chrissy replies and she leans closer, her mouth right next to Waverly’s ear so she can hear her properly. ‘But you should be celebrating tonight. We just won our first ever regional championship under your leadership. Whatever’s happened, screw it. Forget about it for tonight.’

Waverly wishes she could. But it’s not that simple, not when - 

‘Come on,’ Chrissy continues, grabbing her arm and dragging her towards the kitchen. ‘A drink will help.’

It’s on the tip of Waverly’s tongue to refuse, but then she figures _what the hell_ , one drink can’t hurt…

***

Famous last words.

An hour, three drinks, and two shots later and Waverly is blissfully empty-headed, the only thing on her mind being the very _urgent_ need to dance until her legs drop off. Perhaps literally. Who really knows.

It’s as she’s walking (staggering) towards the lounge that she spots (barely sees through the double-vision) a familiar crop of red hair elbowing its way through the crowd towards her.

‘Nicole!’ she squeals, so loudly even over the deafening music that several people turn to look at her. ‘You came!’

‘Of course I did,’ her best ( _best_ ) friend shouts back. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

Nicole looks around, peering across the burgeoning crowds as though searching for something - or some _one_ . Waverly knows exactly who and she is in no mood to entertain questions about _them_. Not tonight. Not after - 

She tries to shake her head, but the movement makes the world spin around her rather unpleasantly and she feels her stomach roll around and a burning sensation sear her throat, so she stops.

When she’s stable (not really) again, she’s mildly surprised to find Nicole’s hand around her waist, warmth seeping through her red blouse at the contact. She stares at it and can’t look away.

_Why?_

‘You okay?’ Nicole asks, peering at her a little too intensely for her liking ( _but really…_ )

‘Of course!’ she responds, too quickly and _too_ shrilly. Nicole’s perfectly quirked eyebrow makes her panic even more. ‘I just want to _dance_. Come on.’

Her attempt to tug Nicole into the lounge with her is met with stubborn resistance. Waverly may be an athlete of sorts, and a deceptively strong one at that, but Nicole is no push( _pull?_ )over.

‘Er, no, I don’t think so,’ Nicole chuckles - nervously, Waverly (just about) realises.

‘ _Nicole_ ,’ Waverly wheedles, dragging out the two syllables into their own long sentence. ‘Come _on_ . We’re meant to be _celebrating_.’

‘And I can do that just fine from the sidelines without making myself look like an idiot.’

A huff and a roll of the eyes and a (very dramatic) sigh greet this reply. She’d been looking forward to dancing with her best friend _all night_ , only to be disappointed so bitterly. Really, it’s not much to ask. Just -

‘- _one time_ , before you graduate and leave me alone _forever_.’

Nicole laughs - loud, heartily - at her histrionics, at the classic hyperbolic overreaction Waverly always resorts to when her best friend is being entirely _too stubborn_ for her own good.

‘All right, you drama queen,’ Nicole smiles, a fond smile imbued with so much warmth and affection that it’s all Waverly can focus on through her swimming vision. ‘ _One_ dance. But not before I have a drink to numb some of the inevitable mortification.’

So great is her excitement that she wraps Nicole in the tightest hug she’s ever managed before dragging her unceremoniously into the kitchen where the remainder of the dwindling alcohol is kept. Somehow through the booze-fog and the impatience, she manages to locate a beer bottle and shoves it into Nicole’s hands, watching as she begins to sip it. Slowly.

 _Too_ slowly.

‘You’re doing this on purpose,’ she mutters, narrowing her gaze at the friend she knows entirely too well by this point.

Nicole grins against the lip of the bottle, eyes sparkling with what Waverly can only identify as _mischief_ . It’s not the first time she’s seen that look; usually it makes an appearance whenever the redhead is in the presence of the ever-reckless Wynonna. Very, _very_ rarely does it reveal itself to Waverly alone.

In spite of her irritation - because, really, she just wants to _dance_ \- she finds she rather likes it.

Perhaps a little _too_ much.

Five long minutes - and plenty of huffing and eye-rolling from Waverly - later, Nicole places the empty bottle on the kitchen counter. She proceeds to make a show of straightening her shirt (Waverly’s favourite black and blue flannel, the one that complements her striking red hair so well) and wiping her hands on her ( _tight…_ ) jeans, all whilst Waverly’s mock-glare intensifies.

But rather than be intimidated by it (because when is she ever?), Nicole simply appears amused. Smirk firmly in place on her ( _flawless..._ ) face, she holds out her hand for Waverly to take.

And take it Waverly does.

It’s warm and safe and feels so very much like _home_ right then that she doesn’t move at first. Her eyes travel from their linked fingers - something they’ve done so often over the years that it _shouldn’t_ feel so different - up the length of Nicole’s arm with her rolled-up sleeve and to her honey-brown eyes, framed by the faintest of frowns as her friend ( _friend_ ) peers down at her.

‘Waverly? Did you...want to dance, or…?’

The question snaps her out of...whatever this is and she nods. ‘Yes!’ There’s that shrillness again. She clears her throat. ‘Yeah, of course. But first...’

Before Nicole can say anything, she’s reaching into the back pocket in which she knows the redhead keeps her phone. Unlocking it with surprisingly deft (given her current state) fingers, she brings up the camera app.

‘Something to remember this _momentous_ occasion by!’

She’s quite proud she could say that without stumbling whilst so intoxicated.

Nicole gives her the most exaggerated eye roll she’s ever seen, but she leans down anyway and wraps one arm around Waverly’s shoulder.

‘I’ll do it,’ she tells Waverly when they both realise the height difference really is too pronounced for her to take the selfie.

Five seconds, two beaming smiles, and a blinding flash later, and Waverly is satisfied. Blinking hard against the blue lights still obscuring her vision, but _satisfied_. Almost. Nicole pockets her phone once more and Waverly grabs her hand again.

She quickly hauls Nicole back out of the kitchen and into the throng of teenagers in the spacious lounge before her friend ( _friend_ ) can change her mind. It’s a fast-paced song, well-suited to Waverly’s style, if not Nicole’s. The look on her face reveals her consternation, but she doesn’t let go of Waverly’s hand. It should be a moment Waverly will look back on fondly, if only things hadn’t gone so very, very wrong…

In true Hollywood teen-romance fashion, the song cuts just as they settle opposite one another, eliciting a flurry of slurred complaints from the drunken dancers around them. Nicole, though, looks as though all her birthdays have come at once.

That is until the next song starts up and they realise - 

‘A...slow song?’ Nicole questions, glancing quickly at Waverly - for confirmation? Permission? ‘Um…’

Waverly just wants to _dance_ , so she shrugs and reaches up to wrap her hands around Nicole’s neck. A gesture she has done so many times before during countless hugs they’ve shared.

But here, in this room, with Chris de Burgh crooning _Lady in Red_ ( _what?_ ) over the speakers, it feels...different.

She swallows the thought and waits for Nicole to place her own hands on Waverly’s waist, which she does. Eventually. It’s tentative and awkward but Waverly finds she doesn’t really care.

She just wants to _dance_.

( _With Nicole._ )

They shuffle into the dance, Nicole stepping on her feet more than once in her uncertainty - of the song? The dance? The dance _with_ _Waverly_? - and Waverly can’t help but notice how Nicole’s eyes flicker to her _red_ top every now and then, as though trying to work something out.

Whatever it is, the thought noticeably dies as Nicole finally meets her gaze - and holds it. For a long, long moment.

Too long, and too intensely, to be entirely innocent.

It’s this moment, Waverly now thinks, that changed everything between them. If only she hadn’t been so _stupid_ …

But she was. She couldn’t help it.

Nicole is standing there, fingers digging into her hips a little tighter than before, enough for Waverly to feel her short fingernails through the fabric of her skirt; her lips are parted as though she wants to say something and she’s gazing at her as if she’s the most beautiful girl she’s ever seen, as if she’s the only one in this entire room of people - in the entire _world_ \- that matters in this moment.

And she _can’t help it_.

Every rational thought seeps from her mind, leaving only one desire burning clearly through the waning numbness of the alcohol. She lifts herself up onto her tiptoes, so very close to Nicole’s face now, closer, perhaps, than she’s ever been, and - 

‘Who put this shit on?’

Stephanie’s voice pierces the bubble of longing in which she’s drowning and Waverly is suddenly, painfully reminded of where they are as the song cuts once again. Nobody complains this time.

Nobody except Waverly, in the secret, lonely recesses of her mind, as she glances up at Nicole again.

Nicole, who takes a quick step back, hands falling to her sides as her mouth snaps shut and she shakes her head.

‘Sorry,’ she mutters, and then she’s gone, fighting through the crowd before Waverly can ask her what she’s even sorry for.

She tries to follow, to chase Nicole down and apologise herself - for, really, it had been _her_ making the _stupid_ move, fuelled by the bravado and foolishness that only alcohol can provide - but several hands grasp her and pull her towards the nearby table.

In the haze that follows, she’s dimly aware of Stephanie and Chrissy singing (literally) her praises as everyone cheers, oblivious to her need to _not be here_ right now.

In the turmoil that ensues _afterwards_ , the last thing she remembers is finding Nicole scurrying away from a broken, bloody Champ outside in the front garden and screaming at her as the panic and the fear and the fury took hold...

***

**Nicole’s House, Present Day**

_Stupid_ , she thinks. What a thoughtless, _stupid_ thing to do, bringing _that_ night up.

The night that had changed _everything_.

She sees the moment the tension seizes Nicole’s body, her muscles going rigid as she determinedly doesn’t look at Waverly. Instead, she’s staring at the photos again on the mantelpiece.

Or rather, one photo in particular.

Waverly can’t make it out from her spot on the couch.

She tries to think of something - _anything_ \- to say to rescue the situation, but her mind is woefully blank. There’s only one question burning the tip of her tongue, and it’s the only one that is guaranteed to make things much, _much_ worse.

She never did get a proper answer to it all those years ago, nor every time she’s asked it since.

_Why?_

Deep down, she’s not certain she wants to hear the answer. For it is sure to destroy the frayed threads of civility that _just_ about linger between them, that they are steadily weaving back together, one conversation at a time.

But _why?_

Waverly watches as Nicole balls her right hand into a fist before unclenching it again. She does this once, twice, three times before she seems to realise what’s happening and tucks it into her lap instead.

‘It’s getting late,’ she says quietly, despite the fact that it’s only just shy of eight o’clock. ‘I’ve got work early tomorrow.’

It’s a sign that she’s dismissed. One that Nicole has used all too often over the years when things between them become too tense to handle. Waverly bites back the sigh, for she knows this was always going to be the outcome after her stupid, _stupid_ mistake. It’s probably for the best, she decides. Leave now before things descend into a bitter argument, the way they always have done in the past. She thinks, maybe, they can salvage this. That maybe tonight has _already_ gone some way to salvaging things between them. It’s a start, at least.

She may never truly forgive Nicole for what she did, but she’s slowly come to realise that she wants her old friend ( _friend?_ ) back in her life in whatever capacity they can manage.

In whatever capacity they can _bear_.

Placing her wine glass on the side table next to her, she stands up. Nicole does the same.

‘How will you get home?’ she asks. ‘You can’t - ’

‘I know I can’t drive,’ Waverly huffs, cutting off the ‘cop lecture’ she knows is coming from _Officer Haught_. ‘I’ll call Wynonna.’ The quirk of Nicole’s eyebrow is enough of a response. ‘She stayed at home tonight,’ Waverly answers quickly. ‘She’s fine to drive.’

She hopes…

Nicole nods but says nothing.

Needing some distance from her piercing stare, Waverly moves closer to the fireplace as she takes out her phone to text her sister.

It’s as she’s waiting for the reply that her eyes land on the photos.

On _one_ photo in particular. The one Nicole has been gazing at all night. Though ‘gaze’ might not be quite the right word given the intensity with which she had fixated upon it.

Waverly leans closer to it, faint as it is in the low light of the table lamp, and stifles the feather-light gasp that rushes up her throat.

It’s the picture from that night. The last one they’d ever taken together.

She’d kept it.

She’d _printed_ and _framed_ it.

Even after everything that had happened between them, after everything that _has_ happened between them since then.

The confused tangle of emotions the revelation stirs up is too much and Waverly needs to go. _Now_. She makes a quick excuse, muttering a hasty goodbye as she snatches up her bag and hurries out of Nicole’s house, away from the painful memories and the unspoken truths and the woman who, really, still means so very much to her that it _hurts_.

And it’s going to take a lot more than three glasses of wine to numb it once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it clichéd? Absolutely. Do I mind? Eeeeh, not all that much. The hints and clues are mounting. I wonder if anyone will guess as to the precise nature of what prompted the fallout...
> 
> Let's hope the eventual payoff is worth the wait. :)

**Author's Note:**

> To anyone who is reading this: thank you for your time and I hope I can keep you entertained in some small way. :)
> 
> As always, any feedback and constructive criticism welcome!


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